The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 9

Leaving William to his sacred duties with Spryngheuse’s remains, Bartholomew and Michael returned to Michaelhouse and ate a meal of salted herrings and barley soup. Michael complained bitterly about the fact that it was a fish day, and sparked off a debate between Suttone and Wynewyk about whether it was right to abstain from meat at specific times during the week. Suttone maintained that the men who gorged on flesh on Fridays were the same folk who had provoked God to send the plague. Wynewyk declared that the definition of ‘meat’ was so vague – animal entrails, for example, were not considered as such, although muscle was – that He probably thought it was irrelevant. The argument was still in full swing when the hall was cleared of tables for the afternoon’s lectures.

Bartholomew checked his students were on schedule with their reading, then left to visit his patient in St John’s Hospital. Michael went with him, because the dying man was a Benedictine called Brother Thomas, who had been kind to him as a naïve and homesick novice many years before.

‘You are fatter than ever,’ said Thomas, when Michael followed the physician into the hall.

‘Good afternoon to you, too,’ said Michael irritably.

‘If you continue to grow, you will be too big to fit through doors,’ Thomas went on mercilessly.

‘I am not fat,’ replied Michael with a cross sigh. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘You are fat,’ said Bartholomew baldly. ‘And it is not good for your health. You puff and groan when you walk up Castle Hill, and you can no longer chase criminals.’

‘I do not want to chase criminals,’ objected Michael, while the old monk made a wheezing sound to indicate he was chortling his appreciation at the physician’s blunt tongue. ‘That is why I have beadles. Besides, it is inappropriate for a Senior Proctor to scamper through the streets of Cambridge like a March hare. I have a position of authority, and must move in a stately manner.’

‘Like an overloaded cart pulled by a straining nag,’ said Thomas brutally. ‘Matthew is right: you do not look well with so much flesh on your heavy bones, and you are eating yourself into an early grave. And there is another thing: you often put your friend in dangerous situations. Imagine how you would feel if he needed your help and you could not move fast enough to save him.’

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, no dinner for you tonight, Brother.’

Thomas grimaced. ‘I am serious, so listen to me! I am an old man and I know what I am talking about. Michael is obese, and such men often die before their time. I do not want that to happen to him, and I do not want you killed in some fracas, screaming for him while he waddles too slowly to your aid. Heed my words. I will meet God today, and you cannot refuse a dying man’s last request.’

Bartholomew was silent, unnerved by the old man’s gloomy warnings, while Michael busied himself by fussing with the bed-covers. They waited until he slept, and then left. Bartholomew knew he was unlikely to wake again, and that the frail muscles in his chest would soon simply fail to fill his lungs with air. Michael was pale when they emerged into the sunlight, and the physician saw Thomas’s words had struck hard. They walked without speaking until they met Paxtone outside King’s Hall, where Michael’s expression went from troubled to angry. Bartholomew sensed the monk was about to say something he might later regret, just because he wanted to vent his spleen.

‘No, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘Attacking Paxtone for being a poor Corpse Examiner will achieve nothing. He will not understand what he has done wrong, and you will offend a man who is a friend.’

‘Perhaps I should include him on my list of suspects,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘He, too, visits Oxford with gay abandon, and may have his own reasons for disguising a murder.’

‘If that were the case, then I doubt he would have confessed to performing an inadequate examination. He would have let us assume he was thorough.’

He greeted Paxtone amiably before Michael could reply, and told him about the mass arranged for Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse later that afternoon. Paxtone said he was saddened to hear about the deaths, and offered to attend the requiem with some of his colleagues.

‘Why?’ asked Michael, unnecessarily abrupt. ‘Did you know them?’

‘No,’ replied Paxtone, startled by the monk’s hostility. ‘But they were fellow scholars, and it is the least we can do. Weasenham told me today that the St Scholastica’s Day riots were started deliberately, and that someone intends to do the same here. We academics need to stick together, to show the town that we stand solidly with our Oxford colleagues.’

‘Where did Weasenham hear this?’ demanded Michael furiously.

Paxtone took a step back, unnerved by his temper. ‘He did not say. Why? Do you think he made it up? It would not be the first time he invented tales when he found himself short of real stories.’

‘Come with me to see him now,’ ordered Michael. ‘I want to know if there is a factual basis to his rumour-mongering, or whether he is speaking out of spite. In either case, he will desist immediately. I will not have him giving people ideas, and starting trouble when Islip is about to arrive.’

‘You are right,’ said Paxtone, starting to walk in the direction of the stationer’s domain. Bartholomew followed, and could not help but notice that Michael was not the only large man who waddled. ‘These tales that Oxford was ripped to pieces by townsfolk angered me, and I am a mild-tempered fellow. I cannot imagine what will happen if lads like Lee of Gonville or – I am sorry Matt, but it is true – Deynman and Falmeresham come to hear them.’

Michael stormed into Weasenham’s shop. It was busy, with at least twenty students and Fellows inspecting the merchandise. Alyce was demonstrating a new kind of ink that dried more quickly than traditional ones, while Weasenham was deep in conversation with several scholars, all of whom were listening avidly to every whispered word. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he caught the word ‘Scholastica’ among the muted diatribe, and it plunged even deeper when he saw that the eager ears belonged to Gonville’s feisty students, including Lee. Michael surged up to them.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Weasenham, beaming falsely when he saw the monk’s furious expression. ‘Have you used all that parchment already? Do you want me to send you more?’

‘What has he been telling you?’ demanded Michael of Lee.

‘Nothing about a certain physician’s visits to a Frail Sister,’ squeaked Weasenham in alarm, when he misunderstood what Michael was asking. ‘I swear I have said nothing to anyone about that.’

‘What physician?’ snapped Lee. ‘You had better not be gossiping about Doctor Rougham’s meetings with Yolande de Blaston on the first Monday of the month, or you will have me to contend with.’

‘Does he?’ asked Weasenham encouragingly, eager for more details.

Bartholomew felt sorry for Rougham. It was the second time he had heard people refer to the dalliance, and, although he had been unaware of the man’s penchant for Yolande, it was clearly no secret. Rougham could have gone to his College after the attack, and not imposed himself on Matilde, after all. He reconsidered: but then he would have told people about Clippesby, and the tale that a Michaelhouse Fellow had bitten a Gonville man would have resulted in trouble for certain.

‘No,’ Lee replied unconvincingly. ‘It is a lie put about by his enemies. He goes to …to treat her bunions.’

‘Bartholomew is her physician,’ said Weasenham, not so easily misled. ‘And Rougham would never physic her, because she would not be able to pay him. Bartholomew does not care about that kind of thing, but Rougham certainly does.’

‘She has two physicians,’ said Lee in a voice that was loaded with menace. ‘One for her bunions, and one for everything else. So, we shall say no more about the matter. If I hear the faintest whisper against Doctor Rougham or Yolande, I will come to your shop and ram your parchments-’

‘What was he saying to you just now?’ interrupted Michael. He hoped the stationer would take Lee’s threat seriously, because he was sure Rougham would assume Bartholomew was the source of any rumours that associated his name with that of Yolande de Blaston.

‘He was telling us what happened in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day,’ said Lee, still scowling at Weasenham. ‘The men who started the riot were called Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse, both of whom have been murdered in Cambridge since.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And how do you come to be party to this information, Weasenham?’

Weasenham swallowed uneasily, and would not meet Michael’s eyes. ‘Spryngheuse told me himself. He and Chesterfelde are to be buried today, and everyone knows they are young men dead before their time. He said a Benedictine had followed him here, determined to exact revenge, and he was thinking of moving to another town. He planned to go today.’

‘He left it a bit late, then,’ muttered Lee.

‘Tell him the rest,’ said Paxtone to the nervous stationer. ‘About the plot to spread unrest and bring down the universities.’

‘I am only repeating what I have been told,’ bleated Weasenham, unnerved by Michael’s stern expression. ‘The Oxford disorder was deliberately started, and it is believed that the same thing will happen here.’

‘Who said this?’ demanded Michael.

‘Polmorva. He said he will abandon Cambridge soon, because it is on the verge of a serious crisis. He is thinking of setting up a new university in a different place – not Stamford or Northampton, because scholars have tried those places before, and their schools were suppressed – but somewhere really nice, like Haverhill in Suffolk, or perhaps Winchester.’

‘Did he mention the names of the men who want to see us in flames?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘He did not know them, but obviously something is going on, because Chesterfelde was murdered, and now Spryngheuse is dead.’

Michael was sceptical. ‘If Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse really did start the riots in Oxford, and someone wants to do the same here, then why waste two experienced rabble-rousers by killing them? Why not recruit them?’

‘Perhaps there is more than one faction at work, Brother. There may be those who want riots, and who may have brought Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde here. And there may be those who want peace, and who intend to punish that pair for what they have already done.’

‘And it looks as if one group has been successful,’ added Lee, in case Michael had not worked it out for himself. ‘The two rabble-rousers are dead, so someone else will have to do their dirty work.’

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ said Weasenham with a sickly smile, as Michael regarded him with distaste. ‘You cannot punish me for repeating facts.’

‘They are not facts,’ said Michael sharply. ‘They are speculation, and if you spread any more tales that the town is about to be put to the torch, I shall arrest you. Do you want to see us under interdict, like Oxford? Do you want the Archbishop shocked by what he finds here?’

‘No,’ stammered Weasenham. ‘But I-’

‘If the University flounders, then Cambridge will have no need for a stationer. You will have to go to Haverhill or Winchester, and hope Polmorva manages to attract enough students to keep you in business. There are far too many secular clerks in Winchester for a university to be a success, while Haverhill is full of pigs. Rather like Oxford, I imagine.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out. Paxtone and Bartholomew followed, and the physician noticed that a number of Weasenham’s customers had listened to the reprimand. As he closed the door behind him, a babble of excited conversation broke out, and he wondered if Michael had done more harm than good. In a few moments the door opened again, and Lee sidled out.

‘Weasenham is not the only one who has been predicting unrest,’ he volunteered helpfully. ‘There was talk among the townsfolk in the Market Square this morning, because of Eudo.’

‘Eudo?’ asked Michael. ‘The absconded tenant of Merton Hall, who robs the good citizens of Cambridge and hides his booty in a cistern?’

‘Not according to him. He says he is innocent, and that the University fabricated the evidence against him because we are all corrupt and love to treat townsmen badly. He fled from the Square before the Sheriff could catch him, but he was very vocal in his denials.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘This is not good news – not so close to the Visitation. I have a bad feeling Weasenham’s predictions might be right, and someone really is trying to harm us.’

‘Never mind the Archbishop,’ said Bartholomew, worried. ‘If rioting does occur, then people are going to be killed or maimed. I do not want that to happen, whether Islip is here to see it or not.’

‘Polmorva,’ said Paxtone uneasily. ‘Is he trying to destroy us? Oxford has already been brought low, and if we are suppressed for violence, it means his new university will have a better chance of success. Winchester and Haverhill are lovely places, but I do not want them to flourish at our expense. Something must be done to stop him.’

‘If it is him,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘We have no evidence, other than the suspicion that he would like to found a rival studium generale, which is hardly damning. What do you think, Matt? Is he the kind of man to destroy two towns for personal gain?’

‘Yes,’ answered Bartholomew without hesitation. ‘But that does not mean to say he has actually done it.’

‘I must go,’ said Lee, edging away. ‘Rougham sent word that he will arrive home from Norfolk soon, and I need to clean his clyster pipes. He will be angry if they are not spotless.’

‘His imminent return is good news, Lee,’ said Paxtone pleasantly. ‘You must miss him.’

‘Actually, I prefer it when he is not here,’ said Lee baldly. ‘But he is coming back, and there is not much I can do, except make sure his pipes are shiny. I do my best, but he is never satisfied.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘I have the same experience with him myself.’

Lee strode away, while Paxtone invited Bartholomew and Michael to King’s Hall for a cup of wine before the requiem mass, saying he had something he wanted to discuss. Michael accepted before Bartholomew could decline, and Paxtone took them to the refectory, where a pot of ale mulled over a brazier. He poured goblets for his guests, then led them to a table where some of the other Fellows sat. Dodenho was among them, holding forth on some aspect of philosophy that he claimed to have developed, while Wormynghalle was trying to look interested. She brightened when Paxtone, Bartholomew and Michael arrived.

Bartholomew grinned conspiratorially. ‘You are looking especially manly this afternoon,’ he said in an undertone.

She smiled. ‘I rubbed oil into my hair to make it look greasy, and invested in a roll of material to bind my body. Now no one will feel what lies beneath when I slip on wine and a well-meaning physician dives forward to save me.’

‘I am pleased to be here,’ said Michael, settling on a bench and shaking his head when Paxtone offered him a plate of pastries. Bartholomew wondered whether he was unwell. ‘I want to talk to you all about something.’

Dodenho looked pleased. ‘You want me to give another University Lecture. My last one was very well received, and a number of people have asked when the next will be.’

‘So they can avoid it,’ whispered Wormynghalle to Bartholomew. ‘But he is so convinced of his scholarly prowess that he does not realise they are insulting him. Duraunt from Merton Hall said his lecture was enough to make the angels weep, and Dodenho interpreted it as meaning the heavenly hosts would shed tears of admiration at the power of his arguments!’

‘Is he really so stupid?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding the preening scholar wonderingly. ‘Or is it all an act, and he is actually more clever than we think?’

Wormynghalle considered. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘He really does believe he is Cambridge’s answer to Roger Bacon. And speaking of Bacon, what do you think of his contention that-?’

‘My question does concern King’s Hall,’ said Michael to the others, loud enough to distract her. ‘But it is not about public lectures – it is about Hamecotes, who abandoned his duties without permission, and went to buy books. He claims to have purchased Heytesbury’s Regulae from Merton. However, Duraunt informs me that Merton never sells its books, because they are too valuable a commodity. Hamecotes was lying.’

‘We know,’ said Paxtone, taking the wind out of Michael’s sails. ‘It is why I asked you to come here and share a cup of wine with us.’ He swallowed uneasily, and glanced at his two companions. ‘We had hoped to keep the matter quiet, given the disgrace it might bring to our College, but you are a sensible man and I am sure we can rely on your discretion.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do I sense I am going to hear something I will not like?’

‘Probably because you are,’ said Wormynghalle softly. She grimaced, as if the subject was painful for her. ‘You see, Hamecotes is not in Oxford. He is here.’

‘Here?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Well, I have written his absence in the University records now, and I cannot erase it. When did he return? Or are you going to tell me he never went?’

‘We do not know whether he went,’ said Wormynghalle. ‘Although he sent us those letters, so I am inclined to believe that he stopped there briefly, even if it was not his intended destination. We discovered him an hour ago, which is why we have not yet had time to do anything official.’

‘Send him to see me,’ said Michael sternly. ‘He owes two marks for being absent without leave, and we could do with the money before the Visitation.’

‘It is not that simple,’ said Wormynghalle. She looked at Paxtone and Dodenho. ‘I do not know how to explain this.’

‘I do,’ said Paxtone. He stood and indicated that Michael and Bartholomew should follow him. ‘The easiest way is to show-’

‘No!’ cried Dodenho, also coming to his feet. ‘Do not make the situation worse than it is! Just tell them in a few words. They do not need all the grisly details.’

‘I will not lie,’ said Paxtone wearily, as if they had debated the matter too long already. ‘We must do what is right, and Brother Michael is the Senior Proctor. I do not want King’s Hall to become the centre of rumours and speculation when we have done nothing wrong.’

‘King’s Hall is not what I am worried about,’ said Wormynghalle unhappily, indicating that Paxtone was to sit again. ‘It is Hamecotes. I am obliged, as his room-mate, to protect him . . .’

‘I am more concerned with the impact it might have on my scholarly musings,’ said Dodenho. ‘People might not want to read texts scribed by a man whose College …well, you know.’

‘I do not,’ said Michael loudly. ‘What has Hamecotes done that is so dreadful?’

‘It is better just to show him,’ said Paxtone, raising his hand to quell the objections of his younger colleagues. ‘Michael and Matt are friends, and will help us resolve this unfortunate matter quietly and discreetly. Besides, they will not tell anyone else, because of the Visitation.’

Dodenho sighed. ‘Very well, but you had better be right. If this misfires, I shall be cross.’

‘Cross?’ cried Wormynghalle in disbelief. ‘Well, in that case we had better redouble our efforts. Hamecotes may be disgraced and the College shamed, but it would be worse if you were cross!’

Paxtone laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder that made her flinch, while Dodenho merely looked bemused, as if he could not imagine what he had said wrong. Bartholomew and Michael followed Paxtone to the door, the physician doing so reluctantly, not sure he wanted to know what was about to be revealed.

‘You are right to be uneasy,’ whispered Wormynghalle. ‘Do not allow yourself to become embroiled in this, Matt. Let Michael do it – this sort of thing is why he is paid such a princely salary.’

‘I want him with me,’ said Michael, overhearing. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

Paxtone did not reply, but walked into the yard, where he passed a number of buildings before reaching a disused stable block at the far end of the vegetable plots. It was near the river, and Bartholomew was aware of the water’s dank fumes. Paxtone approached a ramshackle shed, and opened a door that creaked rustily. Everyone waited in silence while he took a lamp from a hook on the wall and set about lighting it.

‘What are you doing?’ came an appalled voice from behind them. It was Norton. ‘Are you mad?’

‘We have no choice,’ said Paxtone, busy with the wick.

‘You should have waited,’ shouted Norton furiously. ‘This should be for the Warden and all the Fellows to decide, not just you three. You have no right.’

‘I do not care,’ said Paxtone. ‘I have seen what happens when men try to deceive their way out of difficult situations. They always end up in deeper trouble. It is better this way.’

‘I am not sure I want to remain here any longer,’ said Norton coldly. Bartholomew saw unease and fear under the shell of anger. ‘It is not how I imagined it would be. It is all gossiping in Latin and eating too much. I shall resign at the end of term.’

‘Good,’ said Wormynghalle, as Norton stalked away. ‘At least something good has come out of this. That man has no right to present himself as a scholar. It is an insult to those of us with minds.’

Once the wick burned, Paxtone led the way inside the stable. Bartholomew could make out very little in the gloom, other than that it was dusty and dry.

‘Here is Hamecotes,’ said Paxtone, carrying the lamp to a table that stood in the centre of the room and tugging away a rug to reveal a body. It was swollen and black, and should have been in its grave days before. Michael gasped in shock, and backed away so fast that he collided with Dodenho. Bartholomew simply stared at the sorry sight in front of him.

‘We found him here this morning,’ explained Wormynghalle, putting her hand over her mouth and averting her eyes. Bartholomew saw she was struggling not to betray herself by fainting or being sick. Dodenho was not so iron-willed. He shoved his way past her to reach the fresh air outside, where he stood rubber-legged and breathing heavily.

‘He has been dead a lot longer than that,’ said Michael, stating the obvious. ‘When did you say he left for Oxford?’

‘The morning after Ascension,’ replied Wormynghalle shakily. ‘Fifteen days ago.’

‘And how long has he been a corpse?’ asked Michael, as Bartholomew studied the grisly spectacle.

‘Less than fifteen days, but probably more than five. It is impossible to be precise.’

‘I said farewell to him that morning, and he told me he was looking forward to his journey,’ said Wormynghalle, fighting back tears. She turned away abruptly, and hurried to stand outside with Dodenho, staring up at the sky and blinking hard as she fought to regain control of herself.

Paxtone went to put a paternal arm around her shoulders, and Bartholomew saw her struggle not to recoil from his touch. ‘I know this is hard,’ Paxtone said kindly. ‘You were friends as well as room-mates, and he thought very highly of your scholarship.’

Wormynghalle gulped and tears began to flow freely. ‘He said that?’

Paxtone nodded. ‘Many times. He said you were the cleverest man in the College, and boasted that he was the room-mate of the Fellow destined for widespread academic acclaim.’

Wormynghalle turned away in a flood of grief, while Dodenho straightened himself carefully. ‘Surely you are mistaken,’ he said. ‘He must have meant me.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘If Hamecotes died between the time he left for Oxford and five days ago, does it mean he fulfilled his book-buying duties and came back? Or did he not go at all – in which case who wrote the letters purporting to be from him?’

‘They were in his writing,’ said Wormynghalle in a muffled voice. She took a deep breath and entered the shed again, Paxtone and Dodenho following. ‘You can see them, if you like. I retained them because I intended to scrape the parchment and reuse it later. Perhaps I will keep them now, to remind me of his friendship.’

‘I wonder if he wrote them before he left, as a ruse,’ mused Michael. ‘That would have given him a few free days to go about his business – whatever that was. Was he with Wolf, do you think, looking after him at Stourbridge?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Paxtone. ‘But Wolf was reasonably fit when I saw him a few days before he went missing himself – he had a summer chill, but we all suffer those from time to time. He stayed a day or two at the hospital, but he was malingering, medically speaking.’

‘No sign of the pox, then?’ asked Michael bluntly.

Paxtone did not like his supposedly celibate colleagues being accused of contracting sexually transmitted diseases. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

Michael turned back to the body, forcing himself to look at it. ‘So, how did Hamecotes come to be in this building? Who found him?’

‘I did,’ said Dodenho hoarsely. ‘I like to practise my lectures here, because it is more private than my room. I came on Tuesday evening – he was not here then – and I found his body today. Therefore, he must have brought himself here during the last two and a half days.’

‘He did not come under his own power,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead too long.’

‘I told you that,’ said Paxtone to Dodenho, rather pompously for someone who knew so little about the dead. ‘He was put here: he did not walk to this building on his own.’

‘But who would do such a thing?’ asked Wormynghalle in a small voice. ‘And how did he die? Did he drown? I see from his clothes that he has been wet, and I know he cannot swim.’

‘He may have been in the river,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that is not what killed him. This is.’ He eased away Hamecotes’s liripipe to reveal a slashing gape across the throat, ragged and uneven, as if some blunt, crude implement had been used to inflict the damage.

Dodenho shot from the room, pushing past Wormynghalle and almost knocking her off her feet. Paxtone reeled back with his hand to his mouth, while Michael inhaled sharply at the sight.

‘And that is not all,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘This is the man whose body was in the cistern in Merton Hall.’

Michael gazed at Bartholomew in the darkness of the dilapidated stables. The physician could hear Dodenho retching outside, while Wormynghalle and Paxtone stood well back, so they were not obliged to see the horror on the table. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I recognise the shape of his nose and the moss-coloured liripipe.’

‘He often wore that,’ said Wormynghalle in a cracked voice. ‘He liked green clothes.’

‘You told me that when I wrote Dodenho’s prescription, and you gave me his emerald ink to use by mistake,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘I should have put the facts together sooner, because I remember this garment quite clearly from the well.’

‘But how did he come to be here?’ demanded Michael.

No one could answer, and Bartholomew went back to his examination. He quickly established for certain that the throat wound was the cause of death, and ascertained from the state of the body that it had been immersed in water for some time. There was only one other thing that was pertinent: a rope around the corpse’s feet, which had been cut. He supposed it had been attached to stones and used to weight Hamecotes down, to prevent him from floating. It explained why the body had been so heavy when he had pulled it to the surface in the belief that it was Michael. He realised it would have remained hidden indefinitely, had Michael not had the misfortune to fall in with it. He told the others his conclusions.

‘But Sheriff Tulyet said there was no body in the cistern,’ said Paxtone, bewildered.

‘Obviously, it was moved before he conducted his search,’ replied Michael impatiently. ‘And now we know where it went, although I cannot imagine why. Did Hamecotes know Eudo or Boltone?’

‘Not as far as I am aware,’ replied Paxtone. ‘But Boltone is sometimes obliged to travel to Oxford to present his accounts, and Hamecotes has …had friends there. Perhaps they had mutual acquaintances. It was because of his Oxford connections that we were not surprised when Hamecotes wrote to say he had gone there – we were annoyed and inconvenienced, but not worried.’

‘He did know Boltone,’ said Wormynghalle. She rubbed her mouth on her sleeve and Bartholomew saw that her hands were shaking. ‘Boltone’s brother was bailiff on a manor owned by Hamecotes’s sister, or some such thing. They were not friends, but they passed the time of day when they met by chance on the street.’

‘Boltone,’ said Michael in satisfaction. ‘This explains a good deal. It tells us why he tried to beat our brains out when we ventured too near the place where he had hidden Hamecotes’s body. And Eudo must have helped him – either with the murder itself, or with disposing of the corpse.’

‘Hamecotes died in exactly the same way as Okehamptone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you see these indentations? They are tooth marks. I saw similar damage on Okehamptone’s neck. Also, note the way the flesh is torn here, which is indicative of a puncture caused by a sharp canine . . .’

He trailed off. Was his analysis correct? Were the faint bruises caused by human fangs, or had he allowed Rougham’s claims of being gnawed by Clippesby to influence his conclusions? He found he was not sure. Then he became aware that Paxtone was regarding him with some shock.

‘But Okehamptone died of a fever. I saw the body myself.’

‘You did not,’ said Michael tartly. ‘You prayed over it, but you did not examine it. You missed the fact that there was a wound on Okehamptone’s throat that was identical to this one.’

Paxtone was appalled. ‘But Okehamptone was pale and waxen, not at all like Hamecotes, who is black and bloated.’

‘That is because Hamecotes has been submerged in water for God knows how long,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Of course they do not look the same now.’

‘But how do you know Okehamptone had a wound in his throat?’ asked Paxtone, regarding Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You did not exhume him, did you? Like the medical men in Italy are said to do? I will not condone that sort of activity, Matthew. It is not right!’

‘Okehamptone was not buried,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Which is just as well, given what we now know about him. No one wants his tortured soul roaming the streets of Cambridge, screaming for vengeance and haunting those who let him down, so you should be grateful for what Matt did.’

‘We especially do not want him at large when the Archbishop is here,’ agreed Dodenho. ‘It would mean our suppression for certain. Perhaps I should offer my services to Polmorva, so he will take me with him to Winchester or Haverhill when he establishes his new school.’

‘Yes, go and see him today,’ encouraged Wormynghalle. She fixed Paxtone with accusing eyes. ‘It sounds as though you almost allowed a killer to go free. How could you have missed a terrible injury like this on a man’s body?’

‘I am a physician, whose duty is to the living,’ replied Paxtone angrily. ‘I know there are men who learn anatomy from cadavers, but I am not one of them – I do not even touch them, if I can help it. That is why I did not see Hamecotes’s neck when Dodenho summoned me earlier, either.’

‘No harm has been done,’ said Dodenho, seeing Wormynghalle look angry at their colleague’s negligence. ‘Paxtone made a mistake, but Bartholomew has corrected it. Lesser mortals are prone to errors, and few of us are perfect.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael, evidently putting himself in the latter category. ‘So, we shall say no more about it. What we will discuss, however, is what we can learn about Hamecotes’s death now. Matt?’

‘He and Okehamptone have similar wounds, so they must have been killed by the same person or people.’

‘Boltone is as good a suspect as any,’ said Michael. ‘He knew Hamecotes, and may have met Okehamptone when he visited Oxford to present his accounts. Okehamptone died in Merton Hall, and Hamecotes’s body was concealed in Merton Hall – where Boltone lives. Eudo probably helped him.’

‘But why?’ wondered Bartholomew. ‘Why would they kill these two men?’

‘We will ask them when they are caught,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder why they moved Hamecotes from the cistern to here.’

‘Because they did not want his body found?’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Tulyet made no secret of the fact that he intended to dredge the pit, so they were obliged to hide their victim a second time.’

‘This does not make sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If they fished the body from the well, why did they not grab their sack of treasure at the same time?’

‘Perhaps they intended to go back for it when they finished dealing with Hamecotes, but ran out of time,’ said Michael with a dismissive wave of a fat white hand to indicate the point was unimportant. ‘The question I want answered is why did they bring Hamecotes here, where he would be so easily discovered?’

‘They probably did not know he would be “easily discovered”,’ said Paxtone. ‘I had no idea Dodenho uses this abandoned shed to practise his lectures, and I am sure the killers did not, either. What do you think, Wormynghalle?’

‘I saw Dodenho here once or twice,’ recalled Wormynghalle thoughtfully. ‘But I assumed he was meeting a woman, so of course I said nothing. We men must turn a blind eye to each other’s dalliances from time to time.’ She did not look at Bartholomew.

‘I shall not come here again, though,’ vowed Dodenho. ‘I prefer my audiences alive. Perhaps I will leave Cambridge and go to Oxford instead. They do not have rotting cadavers in deserted huts.’

‘Everything about this case points to Oxford,’ mused Michael. ‘We now have five men dead – Gonerby, Okehamptone, Chesterfelde, Spryngheuse and Hamecotes – all with links to the place.’ He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘Let us review what we know of these deaths chronologically. Gonerby died first, in February, during the riots. But who was next? Okehamptone died about two weeks ago, which is roughly the time you say Hamecotes left King’s Hall.’

‘Hamecotes did not kill Okehamptone,’ said Wormynghalle, immediately defensive of her room-mate. ‘Why would he do such a thing? They probably did not even know each other.’

‘You cannot be sure of that,’ argued Michael. ‘You said yourself that Hamecotes had “friends” in Oxford. And Okehamptone may have killed Hamecotes, anyway, not the other way around. We have no idea who died first, because Matt refuses to be more precise about times of death.’

‘I do not think either is guilty,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their throat wounds are virtually identical, and I doubt one killed the other, and then was slain in the same way by a third person. That is unlikely, to say the least.’

‘I am not sure I agree with your assessment of bites,’ said Paxtone, reluctantly inspecting the wound and clearly finding it distasteful. ‘I acknowledge this rough gash was not made with a knife – even a blunt one – but teeth . . .’ He shuddered at the notion.

Bartholomew pointed again to the marks still visible in the darkening skin. ‘You can see their impression. It looks as if someone grabbed the throat with his teeth and pulled at it. Like this.’

Paxtone turned away with a gasp of revulsion, while Wormynghalle and Michael studiously refused to look until they were sure he had finished. Dodenho witnessed the demonstration, but only because he was too shocked to close his eyes.

‘That was singularly nasty,’ Dodenho said eventually, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His fingers shook violently. ‘What are you trying to do? Unnerve us into having nightmares, with visions of human wolves tearing at the necks of their innocent victims?’

‘Speaking of wolves, what do you think happened to Wolf?’ asked Michael. ‘We have ascertained that Hamecotes was not where you thought he should be, so what about your other absent colleague?’

‘We do not know,’ said Wormynghalle weakly. ‘Paxtone says he does not have the pox, and I do not think he is Rougham’s lover, because both men prefer ladies – as I do. Perhaps Norton is right, and he has absconded because he owes the College so much money. But I do not think he is the killer. Do you?’ She addressed her question to Dodenho, his room-mate.

Dodenho considered carefully. ‘No. He does not have the teeth, for a start. His are decayed, and biting something like a throat would probably make most of them snap off.’

‘This is preposterous!’ exclaimed Paxtone, suddenly angry. ‘You must be mistaken, Matthew. People simply do not die in this way! I have been a physician for twenty-seven years, and I have never heard even the merest whisper of someone bitten to death by another person. I can see there are marks that may have been caused by fangs, but they must belong to a dog or a wild beast.’

‘It is possible,’ conceded Bartholomew, relieved that someone had suggested an alternative. ‘Perhaps someone trained an animal to kill.’

Michael spoke in a low voice when the King’s Hall men began a debate about which creatures might be trained for killing: Paxtone said only dogs were so inclined, while Wormynghalle opted for a bear and Dodenho elected a ferret. ‘Or perhaps someone is so deranged that he thinks he is an animal. Do not forget Rougham, Matt – even I could tell a man had gnawed him. If I bit myself on the arm right now, I would see the same thing that I saw on his shoulder: a parabolic curve with oblong dents for choppers, and square ones for grinders.’

Bartholomew nodded, staring down at the body. ‘The problem with Hamecotes – and Okehamptone, too – is that they have been dead too long. The skin has rotted and changed its texture, so the marks are distorted. There may be a parabolic curve here, and these marks may be molars and incisors. But it is impossible to be sure.’

Michael winced at what he considered unnecessary detail. ‘I believe Hamecotes, Okehamptone and Rougham – and probably Gonerby too – were victims of the same person, because it is impossible that we should have two lunatic biters on the loose simultaneously. But this leads us to more questions: first, how is Rougham connected to the Merton Hall deaths, and second, who is this maniac?’

‘It cannot be Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘If it were, then we would have to assume that he also took Hamecotes from the cistern and brought him here. He has been at Stourbridge, and has had no opportunity to tote corpses around the town.’

‘We have been through this before, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Clippesby has had the opportunity to retrieve and hide bodies. He regularly escapes from his cell, and he does not even bother to deny the fact. I know you are reluctant to believe he could do such a thing, but I think it is time we faced up to the truth, and took a long hard look at him.’

Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘You can look all you like, but Clippesby is not our man. He has no reason to select these particular victims. I think you were right with your original theory: that there is something odd going on that involves Oxford – and Merton in particular – because all these deaths have some link to those places.’

‘With the exception of Rougham.’

‘He is in his fifties, and claims to have travelled. He may well have studied at Oxford in the past.’ ‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle, breaking into their discussion. ‘Those Oxford men have no right to bring dangerous creatures to our city. It is only a matter of time before the thing attacks someone else, and I do not want it said that scholars harbour savage beasts for the express purpose of slaughter.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Dodenho. ‘Eudo whipped the townsfolk into a frenzy this morning with his tales of scholars blaming him for crimes he did not commit. If word leaks out that we have killer ferrets in our halls, they will rise up against us for certain.’

‘Then we must make sure they do not,’ said Michael decisively. ‘Keep this affair with Hamecotes quiet until I tell you otherwise. Bury him as soon as you can, but do not tell the students what really happened. We have a great deal to lose, and we must be discreet.’

‘You can trust us,’ said Paxtone. ‘We do not want our College attacked or the town in flames. Hamecotes will be buried tomorrow, but no one will know how he died.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. He glanced out of the window, gauging the hour by the angle of the sun. ‘It is almost time for this requiem. Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse should go in the ground as soon as possible: I do not want dead scholars used as a rallying point as halls and Colleges rise up against the town.’

Bartholomew followed Michael to St Michael’s Church, where the monk performed a moving and solemn mass. Bartholomew had expected Duraunt and Polmorva to attend, but he was surprised to see the three merchants, too. Eu and Abergavenny stood together near the front of the small gathering of mourners, but the tanner remained apart from them. Judging by the number of black looks he threw in their direction, they had had a serious falling-out over something.

Towards the end of the service, at its sacred climax, the largest of the altar candles began to gutter, and Bartholomew realised he had not changed it since Michael had complained about its defective wick. Before he could fetch a replacement, the flame had flickered and gone out.

‘That is an omen,’ he heard Eu whisper, while Wormynghalle began to cross himself. ‘There is something amiss with this whole business, and God has sent us a sign.’

‘Nonsense,’ replied Polmorva. ‘It tells us only that Michaelhouse did not have the decency to provide new candles for our dead.’

‘It does not mean that either,’ said Duraunt, sounding tired. ‘It simply means one candle is finished and a new one is needed.’

‘It means there are restless spirits here,’ said Wormynghalle, looking around fearfully, as if he expected one to come and accost him. ‘And they do not like what we are doing.’

‘We are watching a holy rite,’ said Polmorva archly. ‘Why should spirits object to that?’

‘It depends on the spirit,’ said Eu in his laconic manner. ‘Demonic ones will not appreciate a sacred office, I am sure. But perhaps the candle expired because God knows what really happened to Spryngheuse, and He does not want his sinful body in consecrated ground.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle. His face was white and his eyes dilated with fear. ‘I am not staying here to be blasted by divinely inspired lightning.’

He clattered out of the building as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving Bartholomew staring after him in astonishment, amazed that a rough, insensitive man like the tanner should be so seriously agitated by the end of a candle. Eu laughed, hard and derisively, distracting Michael from his duties.

‘Stop that!’ said the monk sharply. ‘Snigger outside if you must, but do not befoul my church with undignified behaviour. If there are bolts of lightning on their way, it will be because you have cackled and chattered during the Transubstantiation.’

‘The candle going out is significant,’ insisted Eu, chagrined and sulky at the rebuke. ‘A flame extinguishing itself during the mass means something terrible will happen. You mark my words.’

The following day was a Saturday, so teaching finished early, and Bartholomew and Michael went to visit Rougham. They found him out of bed and sitting at the lower-ground window. His face was pale and he was thinner than he had been, but he had washed and shaved, and had lost the hollow-eyed stare that had made Bartholomew fear for his life. He was laughing when Bartholomew tapped on the door and entered. The physician had never seen Rougham laugh, except on occasions when a student or a colleague had done something stupid, when he made a braying sound full of derision. But this was an open guffaw, full of genuine mirth.

‘Matilde has been entertaining me,’ he explained when he saw his colleague’s bemusement. ‘She has tales about life at Court you would not believe. She is wasted here. She should be with Queen Philippa, employing her many accomplishments and securing herself a decent husband.’

Matilde gave a wistful smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she might concur, and it crossed his mind to ask her to marry him then and there. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rougham chattered on, and Bartholomew did not want to propose in front of an audience anyway. He decided to ask later, when Rougham was back at Gonville and they could be alone.

‘She plays the lute with a skill I have seldom seen.’ Rougham continued with his eulogy when Matilde went to fetch cushions for her guests. ‘And she sings with the voice of an angel. She reads better than any Bible Scholar I have heard, and she sees through the political manoeuvrings of the King’s Court with a skill any clerk would envy. I repeat: she should not be squandering her talents here.’

‘You have enjoyed her company, then?’ asked Michael wryly.

‘I most certainly have!’ declared Rougham with great conviction. ‘I was horrified when Yolande and her husband brought me here: to the home of the woman who organises the town’s whores into an efficient and well-run guild. But Matilde is not like them and, since I have regained my wits, she has impressed me with her modesty and gentleness. It is not every lady who would take an ailing man into her home and risk so much for him. But Matilde did so without complaint, and my reputation remains intact.’

‘Hers is not, though,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply. ‘And besides, she only did it because you threatened to expose Clippesby.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Rougham. ‘Clippesby. We must decide what to do about him. I overheard Yolande and Matilde talking last night, discussing rumours that a man called Gonerby died from a bitten throat. Clippesby cannot be allowed to continue his reign of terror.’

‘I am not convinced of his guilt,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that Rougham had learned about one of the other attacks already. ‘The evidence against him is circumstantial, and-’

‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ said Rougham firmly. ‘As I lay bleeding and dazed, there he was, looming above me, covered in my blood. That is not circumstantial, Bartholomew: that is fact.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘Clippesby is a danger to himself and to others, and we need to make a decision about his future.’

Rougham touched Bartholomew lightly on the arm. ‘I am grateful to you for helping me. We are not friends, and you would have been perfectly within your rights to take me to Gonville and explain I was attacked while visiting Yolande. But you have acted with decency and understanding, and I intend to reciprocate. I have given the matter a good deal of thought over the last two days, and I have a plan.’

‘A plan for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘A plan for Clippesby. He cannot be allowed to return to Michaelhouse as though nothing has happened – not only because none of us want him to kill again, but because it would not look good for Michaelhouse to harbour homicidal lunatics.’

‘I thought we could send him home to his father,’ said Michael. ‘We cannot grant him a benefice in some remote village, because he might start eating his parishioners.’

‘His family might be as mad as he is,’ Rougham pointed out, not unreasonably. ‘But my brother owns large estates in Norfolk, and I established a hospital there a few years ago. It is remote, secure and run by an Austin Canon who asks no questions. He is a good man, and will treat Clippesby kindly.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The hospital has its own chickens, geese, sheep and cows, so Clippesby will have plenty of suitable company.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘For how long?’

‘For the rest of his life,’ replied Rougham. He sighed in exasperation when he saw his colleague’s shock. ‘There is no other solution, man, and I am offering a haven, where he will be safe and cared for and where no one else will suffer as I have. I am even volunteering to pay for his keep.’

‘You are very generous,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could refuse. ‘And you are also right: there is no other solution to this problem. Clippesby should, by rights, answer for his crimes and pay with his life, but the town and the University are too unsettled to have that sort of scandal circulating.’

‘You mean you do not want the Archbishop to know that Michaelhouse Fellows attack innocent men with their teeth,’ said Rougham. ‘Well, I happen to concur: I do not want Islip to build his new foundation in Oxford, when it should come here. We must unite on this, because it would be a pity to let Clippesby’s illness deprive our University of what is its right.’

‘But to lock a man away for the rest of his life . . .’ said Bartholomew, troubled. He recalled Clippesby’s distress when informed that he was to be incarcerated for a few days, and could not imagine how he would react to being told he would never be free again.

‘It is horrible, but necessary,’ said Rougham. ‘Besides, he should be grateful his life is to be spared. You saw what he did to me, and perhaps you inspected the corpse of the man he murdered – this Gonerby. You cannot allow him his liberty.’

‘It is settled, then,’ said Michael. ‘We should make arrangements as soon as we can – before the Visitation, if possible. Clippesby wants to see Islip, and I do not want him to escape from Stourbridge and bite the throat of the highest-ranking churchman in the country.’

‘I have already sent word to my Norfolk hospital,’ said Rougham. ‘Matilde hired a messenger, and he is riding as we speak. I recommend Clippesby leaves on Monday morning. I would say tomorrow, but it is Sunday, and I do not want to despoil the Sabbath. The Archbishop will not be here until Monday afternoon, so it should work out nicely.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. He smiled when Matilde entered the room and handed him a goblet of wine. ‘And when will you be ready to leave, Rougham?’

Hope flared in Matilde’s eyes, and Bartholomew saw that while Rougham might be enjoying his sojourn now he was well enough to appreciate her lively and erudite company, she was tired of him, and wanted him gone.

‘Tomorrow or the day after, God willing,’ replied Rougham. ‘Once I am at Gonville, I can blame my poor health on the journey from Norfolk. No one will question me, because it is common knowledge that travelling is dangerous. Look what happened to poor Henry Okehamptone.’

Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘How do you know his name was Henry?’

‘We were friends,’ explained Rougham. ‘He wrote to say he was coming, and I invited him to stay at Gonville. I was surprised – and offended – when he elected to remain at Merton Hall instead.’

‘You knew Okehamptone?’ asked Bartholomew. He exchanged a glance with Michael.

Rougham nodded. ‘I went to see him the night he arrived – on Ascension Day eve – but was told he was indisposed, and too ill to receive me. The next day, the poor fellow was dead of fever.’

‘Who told you he was indisposed?’ asked Michael. ‘Duraunt?’

‘Someone I did not recognise. He was rather rude, given that I had gone to meet an old friend – I was not even invited inside. If I had been admitted, I would have examined Henry, and might even have been able to save him.’ Rougham grimaced. ‘And I would have been occupied with his care, so would have cancelled my appointment with Yolande. A great many things would have turned out differently, had I been allowed to see Henry that night.’

‘What did he look like?’ persisted Michael. ‘This man who refused to let you in?’

‘Fine clothes. Haughty and officious. He made me feel as though I was a beggar after scraps.’

‘Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘Why do you ask?’ Rougham looked from Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You seem to think my friendship with Henry is significant in some way. Why? What do you know that makes you glance so meaningfully at each other?’

Michael rubbed his chin. Since Rougham already knew Gonerby had died from a throat wound, there was no longer a need for secrecy, and he decided to be truthful. When he explained what had happened to Okehamptone, Rougham’s jaw dropped in shock. By the time the monk had finished, tears were rolling down Rougham’s cheeks, and it was some moments before he had regained control of himself.

‘How shocking,’ he said eventually. ‘Poor, poor Henry! The killer clearly assumed that no one would inspect the body properly, and that he would get away with his deception. He was lucky it was Paxtone who made the examination, and not Bartholomew, or he would have been exposed immediately. You are always very thorough.’

‘Weasenham demanded my services that morning,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘You were already here – and, although you did not ask for me until the afternoon, you were still unavailable to patients.’

Rougham gazed at him in confusion. ‘Weasenham? Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because yesterday I sent a note to Lee asking him to prepare a list of all the summons I have missed during the last two weeks. Matilde persuaded him to provide her with a copy.’

‘How did she do that?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Surely he wanted to know why?’

Matilde’s eyes sparkled; she loved a challenge. ‘He was drafting it out in St Mary the Great, and I pretended to admire his writing. He gave it to me as a keepsake.’

The lad was besotted with her, Bartholomew thought, like so many other men. It occurred to him that he might have competition when he asked for her hand in marriage, and that he should place his request as soon as possible. ‘Matilde,’ he began, abandoning his hopes for more intimate circumstances. ‘I have been thinking that you and I …that is to say, have you …?’ His heart was hammering so furiously that it was making him feel light-headed.

‘That was clever of you,’ said Michael to Matilde, when Bartholomew’s stuttering sentences seemed to be leading nowhere important. ‘But what does this list have to do with Weasenham?’

‘His name is not on it,’ explained Rougham, pulling it from his tunic. ‘Look. You can see for yourselves. He is my wealthiest patient, and I was relieved I had not missed a consultation with him. But now I learn he has changed his allegiance, and favours Bartholomew instead. That is a blow.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘However, it does suggest that Matt was deliberately lured away by someone who knew Paxtone would do a less than perfect job. But who? Weasenham himself?’

‘It was a summons under false pretences, too,’ added Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts away from conjugal bliss and supposing there would be another opportunity to propose to Matilde. ‘He only had toothache, and could have gone to the apothecary. He did not need a physician.’

‘Interesting,’ mused Michael. ‘We must have words with him about this.’

‘It is more than interesting,’ said Rougham angrily. ‘It smacks of a carefully laid plot. Henry was an Austin Canon and, although he did not often wear the prescribed habit, he always favoured clothes that were sober and functional. I never saw him don anything as frivolous as the liripipe you described. If there was a gaudy hood on his body, then someone put it there after he died.’

‘To hide the wound,’ surmised Michael. ‘And with my Corpse Examiner otherwise engaged, and a room full of men prepared to swear that Okehamptone had died of a fever, the killer – or killers – had high hopes that the crime would go undetected.’

‘It did go undetected,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘But if Clippesby is the killer, it means he put the liripipe on Okehamptone and convinced everyone that the man died of a fever. It also means he persuaded Weasenham to summon me. It sounds too highly organised to be his work.’

‘But he knows you are a careful Corpse Examiner,’ argued Rougham. ‘No one from Oxford does. It makes sense that he was the one who sent you on this wild-goose chase with Weasenham.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘I wonder whether Polmorva’s refusal to allow Rougham into Merton Hall means Okehamptone was already dead – that he did not die in the night.’

‘No, it does not,’ said Rougham softly. ‘The shutters were open on the upper floor, and I could see inside as I left. Henry was sitting in a window. Perhaps he was feverish at that point, but it did not prevent him from chatting merrily to his Oxford cronies. There was no reason for me to have been turned away, and I was hurt.’

‘You definitely saw him alive?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes. We have known each other ever since we were undergraduate-commoners at Merton, forty years ago. We were boys then, and it was long before you studied there, Bartholomew, but we wrote and met whenever we could. At one point, I was going to marry his sister, but then I embarked on an academic career, and that put paid to thoughts of women – well, to marrying them, at least.’

‘And Okehamptone was talking to his Merton friends that night?’ pressed Michael, to be certain.

Rougham nodded. ‘In the light of his murder, I can only assume this wretch Polmorva declined to tell him I had come a-visiting.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘Which means Polmorva decided in advance that Okehamptone was not to see any friends that night – especially a physician. But why? So no one could later claim he was fit, and had not died of a sudden fever?’

‘If so, then it means Polmorva played an active role in the murder,’ said Rougham. ‘Do you think Clippesby put him under his spell, or perhaps threatened to kill him, if he did not do as he was told?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘Clippesby is not that forceful.’

‘I agree,’ said Matilde, taking part in the discussion for the first time. ‘He is gentle, and abhors violence. And he is far too scatter-brained to have executed such a devilish plot.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘But it explains very neatly why he attacked Rougham later the same night – he knew Rougham was Okehamptone’s friend, and did not want him looking too closely into the death that was to occur before the following morning.’

‘But why would Clippesby want a stranger – an Austin Canon – dead?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Even the insane have their motives, even if they are not ones we understand or accept.’

‘Perhaps he wanted revenge on the Order he knew would later incarcerate him at Stourbridge,’ suggested Rougham. ‘He claims his animal friends tell him things that will happen in the future, so perhaps he had an inkling that he would soon be locked away.’

‘That is weak,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘But not entirely impossible,’ argued Rougham. He shuddered. ‘The sooner I am back at Gonville the better. Will you help me walk there on Monday, after Clippesby leaves for Norfolk? I would like to meet the Archbishop, and I can hardly ask him to visit me here.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew harshly, thinking of Matilde’s reputation. ‘You cannot.’

Bartholomew and Michael left Matilde’s house and started to walk back to Michaelhouse, discussing the difficulties inherent in taking Rougham to Gonville Hall with no one seeing. They considered various options, including disguising him as a leper, hiding him in a cart, and dressing him in one of Michael’s habits. Mention of men in monkish garb reminded Bartholomew of Spryngheuse’s imaginary Benedictine, and he was sorry the Merton scholar had died in such an agony of terror.

Preparations for the impending Visitation were all around them as they walked along the High Street. The gutters were being scoured yet again, and dung collectors were out in force, gathering as much ordure as they could find, for they had been offered double pay for every cartload they procured. Apprentices scaled unsteady ladders to clean the fronts of their masters’ houses and shops, and the demand for washes to paint over old plaster was at a premium. New shades were springing up everywhere, as the preferred cream and ochre became unavailable. Haralda the Dane’s home was an attractive pastel green, while Robin of Grantchester, the unsavoury surgeon who killed more customers than he saved, had opted to make his own, because it was cheaper. It was a vivid pink, and there were rumours that he had added blood from his patients to colour it.

Michael stopped walking and regarded the High Street with a critical eye. ‘It is looking quite attractive,’ he admitted eventually, watching the frenetic activities as people tried to finish as much as possible before the Sabbath put an end to their work.

‘It is a pity about the river and the King’s Ditch, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The dung collectors have amassed such vast quantities over the last two weeks that there is too much to sell for fertiliser. For want of anywhere else to put it, they are dumping it in the waterways, which are now foul.’

‘Archbishop Islip will be fêted with sewage-free streets, newly decorated houses, clean churches, and roads devoid of anything with four legs. He cannot expect the river to smell nice, too.’

‘I was more concerned with the fact that at some point he will want to wash, and it will be unfortunate if he catches a disease because he dabbles his hands in polluted water.’

‘He will be with Chancellor Tynkell for much of the time. And you know what he thinks about cleanliness, so I shall make sure he tells Islip just how dangerous it can be. Besides, he is only staying a week – not long enough for his hands to get dirty.’

Bartholomew gaped, then saw the monk was laughing at him. He smiled, then turned his thoughts to what Wormynghalle the tanner had said about Okehamptone’s death: that bad water had induced a fatal fever. ‘Okehamptone must have made some complaint about his health that night, because I do not think Duraunt, Polmorva, Spryngheuse, Chesterfelde and the three merchants would lie about it, and they all said he had retired to bed unwell.’

‘They did,’ agreed Michael. He was thoughtful. ‘Chesterfelde was snuffling and sneezing the morning I was summoned to deal with Okehamptone’s death, so perhaps Okehamptone had caught something from him. To some men, a summer ague is a minor inconvenience, but to others it is akin to having the plague. Okehamptone may have been one of the latter, and unwittingly provided a way for his killer to conceal his murder.’

‘Some people do exaggerate the severity of their afflictions. I helped Paxtone devise a remedy for Dodenho’s constipation last week, and he demanded last rites before he would let us begin.’

‘There is something distinctly odd about Dodenho. I find it hard to believe he is so dire a theorist, yet considers himself brilliant. I do not like this affair of the astrolabe, either – his “stolen” property ending up in Eudo’s hoard. Nor do I like the fact that he knew Chesterfelde, but initially denied it.’

‘Norton worries me – he reacted peculiarly when we examined Hamecotes. Since he is not here for his education – he cannot attend lectures, because he knows no Latin – I cannot help but wonder what is his real purpose.’

‘It may be ensuring that our University does not gain Islip’s patronage,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘Then there is Polmorva, who witnessed Gonerby’s murder but agreed to travel to Cambridge despite knowing that his own life might be in danger if the killer found out about him. I want to know why he refused to let Rougham see Okehamptone, too. And there is John Wormynghalle to consider.’

‘There is nothing odd about her,’ said Bartholomew, and immediately winced. Mercifully, Michael did not notice his slip.

‘There is,’ he declared. ‘He sometimes misses meals because he is reading.’

‘How singular.’

‘It is curious that he studied in Oxford, yet only made the acquaintance of his namesake here. That tanner stands out, with his ill-fitting clothes and his garish jewellery, and I imagine he would be highly visible in a small place like Oxford. It makes me wonder whether the merchant is as rich and influential as he pretends. Perhaps you were right to be suspicious of him at our first meeting.’

‘He is very recently wealthy, and he is not yet comfortable with it. Not like Eu.’

‘Or Abergavenny. I am certain there is more to his smiling diplomacy than meets the eye. But here comes a contingent of King’s Hall men, all sewn into their best clothes in readiness for the Visitation: boastful Dodenho, bookish Wormynghalle and that reprobate Norton.’

‘I have just been reading Ockham’s distinction between kinematic and dynamic problems in relation to inertia,’ said Wormynghalle excitedly when she met Bartholomew. ‘But I think he is wrong: where there is resistance, then surely a purely kinematic treatment will suffice?’

Bartholomew considered. ‘Ockham was saying that he saw a way – although he does not explain what – of reconciling the law of ratios with movement in a finite time under zero resistance, and-’

‘I have already ascertained that in my latest thesis,’ interrupted Dodenho. ‘It is a work containing dynamical considerations.’

‘I read it,’ said Wormynghalle shortly. ‘It bears an uncanny resemblance to Bradwardine’s Tractatus de proportionibus velocitatum in motibus.’

‘Boring!’ sighed Norton. ‘You scholars are so dull, discussing such nonsense in the street. Why can you not talk about horses, like normal men? Come to the butts with me, Wormynghalle. You have a free afternoon, and I wager you a shilling you will not beat me again.’

‘Another time,’ said Wormynghalle, barely glancing at him as she turned her attention back to Bartholomew, the only man present she considered a worthy adversary. ‘But resistance-’

‘I would have done better if someone had lent me an astrolabe,’ interrupted Dodenho, resentful that his work should be so summarily dismissed.

‘An astrolabe,’ mused Michael. ‘There is a curious thing. You claimed yours was stolen, but later found it and sold it. Then it appears at Merton Hall, where it is owned by Polmorva and then by the tanner. And then it appears among the stolen treasure accrued by Eudo.’ He did not add that it had completed the circle by being offered back to Dodenho by Weasenham, as part of the arrangement for his silence on the whereabouts of the hoard.

‘So?’ asked Dodenho furtively. ‘I cannot be held responsible for what happened when it was out of my possession.’

‘I have a confession to make about that,’ said Wormynghalle, rather guiltily. ‘I am sorry, Dodenho: I am afraid it just slipped out.’

‘What slipped out of where?’ asked Dodenho uneasily.

‘Sheriff Tulyet was bemoaning the fact that he had not found evidence to prove Eudo and Boltone were thieves, and before I knew what I was saying, I had mentioned the fact that Weasenham had found a cache in the cistern, and that your astrolabe was among its treasures. I apologise, but my mind was so full of Ockham that I was not concentrating on the conversation. I did not mean to expose Weasenham, and I should have known better than to hold a discussion with a clever man like Tulyet when half my wits were occupied with kinematic inertia.’

‘Damn!’ cried Dodenho, annoyed. ‘Now I will have to pay full price for parchment!’

Wormynghalle continued. ‘Once the secret was out, Tulyet plied me with all manner of questions. However, I did stress to him that you categorically declined to purchase the astrolabe at Weasenham’s much-reduced price, and I think he believed me. He said he was going to interrogate Weasenham, and I have the feeling that our stationer may think you told him what happened.’

Dodenho grimaced. ‘Curse you and your loose tongue! You are worse than a woman, for chattering like a magpie.’

‘I shall pretend I have not heard this conversation,’ said Michael. ‘Blackmail and concealing stolen goods are criminal offences, but I am presently concerned with more serious matters. Dodenho, your astrolabe links you to a place where two men have been murdered – three, if we include Spryngheuse. You are also a Fellow of King’s Hall, where Hamecotes was found with a fatal wound similar to that of Okehamptone and perhaps Gonerby, and you were friends with Chesterfelde.’

‘What of it?’ snapped Dodenho, unsettled by the direction the discussion was taking. ‘It is coincidence, and you cannot use it to tie me to these deaths. What about Wormynghalle? It was his room-mate who was killed.’

‘But Wormynghalle did not know Chesterfelde, did he?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Dodenho has nothing to do with these deaths,’ objected Wormynghalle, loyally speaking up for her colleague. ‘He is right: all the links you have listed are no more than coincidence.’

‘We should not forget that Dodenho studied in Oxford, either,’ said Michael, unrelenting.

‘So have I,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘But it does not mean I was acquainted with Spryngheuse, Chesterfelde or Okehamptone. It is a large community, full of transients, who come and go with bewildering rapidity. You can conclude nothing from the fact that someone has been there.’

‘Then what about this astrolabe?’ demanded Michael, fixing Dodenho with a glare. ‘Explain that.’

‘Very well,’ said Dodenho, seeing the monk would not leave him alone unless he had answers. ‘I made a mistake. I thought it had been stolen, because I could not find it, but I was wrong.’

‘No,’ said Michael, raising his hand to prevent Wormynghalle from speaking in Dodenho’s defence again. ‘It is more complex than that. Tell me the truth, or I shall press charges of blackmail and dishonesty.’

‘All right, all right!’ snapped Dodenho. ‘I sold the thing to Polmorva and pretended someone had taken it. Hamecotes had a spare, you see – a better one than mine – and I hoped he might give it to me if he thought I had been the victim of a crime. He did not, and then Wolf thought my accusations were levelled at him. I saw I was in a fix, so I dropped the subject and hoped everyone would forget about it. Unfortunately, they did not, and the stupid thing ended up in a place where men have died.’

Michael was unconvinced. ‘Well, we shall see, because I always uncover the truth, no matter how long it takes. Lying about a murder is a serious matter. Men have been hanged for less.’