The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 10

Michael was silent as he and Bartholomew continued their walk towards Michaelhouse, lost in speculation about how and why Dodenho should be involved with the men from Merton Hall. Bartholomew thought about Joan Wormynghalle, and her dedication to learning. She was insightful and intelligent, and he hoped she would be able to fool men over her sex for the rest of her life, and devote herself to something she loved – and at which she excelled. He was certain the discipline of natural philosophy would be the richer for her contributions, and felt it would be a pity if it were to be deprived because of an accident of birth.

When they reached the corner where Weasenham’s shop was located, Michael stopped. Like most of the High Street businesses, Weasenham was doing his bit to make the town attractive for the Archbishop, and his apprentices had been released from their duties of scribing exemplars, making pens and preparing parchment, and were enjoying themselves with brushes and poles. The timbers were freshly treated with resin, to make them shiny and black, and the plasterwork had been washed in a delicate shade of amber. The front door was so new that two carpenters were still adding the finishing touches, and Alyce had placed pots containing colourful plants outside it.

‘She will have to get rid of those,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘The Archbishop will think we only buy pens and ink because we like looking at her flowers.’

‘He will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘Besides, their scent is helping to disguise the stench from the river, so perhaps you should encourage other merchants to do the same.’

‘We need another word with Weasenham,’ said Michael, making for the door. ‘I want to know why he summoned you at the precise time when your services were needed as Corpse Examiner, thus almost bringing about a gross miscarriage of justice.’

The shop was busy as usual and, without the help of his apprentices, Weasenham was overwhelmed with demands for pens, inks, sand, sealing wax, texts, vellum, parchment, and all the other clerkly supplies required by scholars. Bartholomew looked for Alyce, and was not particularly surprised to see her attention focused on a single customer, despite the fact that her husband was rushed off his feet. Langelee leaned close to her as she spoke, oblivious to all else.

‘And he accused me of indiscretion!’ muttered Bartholomew as he weaved his way through the throng towards his Master.

Langelee jumped in guilty alarm. ‘I was just negotiating a better price for Michaelhouse’s ink,’ he gabbled. ‘Wynewyk uses such a lot when he writes the College accounts.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are always in here these days, and tongues will start to wag soon, just as they did with my visits to Matilde. You are carrying on your dalliance right under the nose of the biggest gossip in the town.’

‘My husband is hardly likely to begin rumours that he is a cuckold,’ said Alyce scornfully. ‘Besides, he is so busy talking about other people that he never notices anything I do. He says producing such tales encourages you scholars to patronise us.’

‘Is that why he does it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To improve his trade?’

‘Why else?’ asked Alyce with a shrug. ‘Surely you do not believe he is genuinely interested in who sleeps with whom, or who has the pox?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? It seems most of his customers are.’

‘Father William told him that Ralph here has a fondness for Agatha the laundress,’ said Alyce, amused. ‘Expanding that tale should keep him busy for a while.’

‘Have a care, man!’ breathed Michael to Langelee. ‘Do you know what will happen if Agatha learns she is the subject of such a story? Your life will not be worth living!’

‘She has heard already,’ said Langelee resentfully. ‘And she is being awkward – she is taking an age to launder my cloak, whereas she washed yours the same day. But they are right, Alyce; we should not linger here together. Thank you for the astrolabe. I shall treasure it.’

‘Astrolabe?’ asked Michael, when Alyce had gone to assist her beleaguered husband.

Langelee produced a cloth from under his arm, and unwrapped what was inside. Sure enough, it was the instrument that Dodenho had sold to Polmorva, who had in turn sold it to Wormynghalle, who had then lost it to Polmorva’s sticky fingers, before Weasenham had retrieved it from the cistern.

‘Well,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Now the thing comes to Michaelhouse.’

‘Not for long,’ said Langelee, lowering his voice. ‘It is useless, because the alidade is broken, but it is silver, and so worth a tidy sum. We need new guttering for the hall, and this will pay for it – and more besides. This little liaison of mine is not entirely detrimental to Michaelhouse.’

‘You just told Alyce that you would treasure it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly.

‘But I did not say for how long,’ replied Langelee.

‘I would not keep it for more than a few days, if I were you,’ advised Michael. ‘It is stolen property, although its list of owners is so convoluted that I have no idea who has the right to claim it.’

‘Not Dodenho,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sold it to Polmorva. And not Polmorva, either, because he sold it to Wormynghalle – before stealing it back.’

Langelee was not very interested. He cocked his head to one side. ‘There go the bells to announce the midday meal. I will walk back to Michaelhouse with you.’

‘I want words with Weasenham first,’ said Michael. ‘The Visitation looms ever closer, and my solution to these crimes does not. Food will have to wait.’

Langelee and Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You are willing to miss a meal?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief. He became concerned. ‘Are you ill?’

‘I am perfectly healthy,’ snapped Michael haughtily. ‘At least, I think so, although it appears others do not. Thomas unnerved me yesterday with his predictions of my early death, and I have resolved to eat a little less from now on.’

Langelee looked pleased. ‘That should help the College finances. Will you be applying these new resolutions to wine, too?’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Wine is good for a man, because it increases the amount of blood in his veins. It is only green vegetables that make him fat, especially peas, because they adhere to his liver. I shall forgo those completely, and in a couple of weeks I shall be as lean as Matt here.’

‘I think it might take a little longer than that,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And peas do not . . .’

But Michael was already walking away, unwilling to hear that his dietary plans might be flawed. Bartholomew followed him to where the stationer was enjoying a brief respite from his labours. Most scholars preferred to be served by Alyce, particularly when they were in a hurry, because she fetched the goods they wanted, accepted their money and let them leave, whereas Weasenham waylaid them with chatter. With the Visitation only two days away, people were too busy to gossip, so while Alyce had a queue, Weasenham was temporarily at ease.

‘I have a question,’ said Michael, marching up to him. ‘Who told you to summon Matt for your toothache on Ascension Day? He came at the expense of fulfilling certain obligations to me.’

‘Then I am sorry, although it was hardly my fault. I sent for Rougham, but he was unavailable, so I asked Bartholomew instead. That is how these things work: if one man cannot help you, then you send for his rival. I was very satisfied with Bartholomew, in fact, although I will not hire him again because he is too friendly with you – and with that lecherous Langelee.’ Weasenham glowered at the Master, who was wrestling with the door but failing to open it because he was exchanging smouldering simpers with Alyce.

‘Why should his association with me be considered a negative?’ asked Michael archly.

‘You blackmail people, Brother,’ said Weasenham coldly. ‘I do not want Bartholomew giving you details of my ailments, which you can then use to expose me to ridicule.’

‘I would never do such a thing,’ objected Bartholomew, affronted by the insult to his professional integrity.

‘I do not know what you might do,’ snapped Weasenham. ‘How can I trust the word of a man who visits a prostitute night after night? And now you have led Doctor Rougham astray, too! I saw him sitting in Matilde’s window this morning, while his colleagues are under the impression that he is with his family in Norfolk. I suppose he will pretend to arrive home today, claiming he has been working for Gonville’s good, and all the while he has been enjoying himself here.’

‘You will say nothing about Rougham, unless you want me to tell folk that Langelee has made a cuckold of you,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Then you will learn first-hand how hurtful such chatter can be.’

Weasenham regarded the monk with such glittering hatred that Bartholomew was alarmed. He wondered to what lengths the stationer might go to avenge himself on the College that was home to his wife’s lover and the man who so brazenly subjected him to extortion.

‘You have not answered my question,’ said Michael. ‘Who told you to summon Matt? He says your case was not urgent, and that you could have waited until your regular physician was free – or even visited an apothecary for a remedy.’

‘It was urgent,’ insisted Weasenham. ‘I was in pain. And, as I have told you, I summoned him when my first choice of physicians was unavailable.’

‘Who told you Rougham was unavailable?’ asked Michael. ‘The Gonville porters? The messenger you used? Who?’

‘A customer,’ replied Weasenham. ‘He offered to fetch Rougham, because he said he had nothing else that was pressing. I rewarded him with a pot of my best green ink for his kindness, and thought no more about it.’

‘Who?’ insisted Michael.

‘Green ink,’ said Bartholomew, turning to Michael. ‘Who do you know who uses green ink?’

‘No one,’ said Michael. ‘It would be an odd thing to do when brown and black are available.’

‘Hamecotes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hamecotes had a penchant for green ink.’

* * *

‘Hamecotes,’ said Michael as they left the shop. ‘We know he left Cambridge – perhaps heading for Oxford – on or just after Ascension Day. All his King’s Hall colleagues agree on that point.’

‘And it was on Ascension Day that he offered to fetch Rougham to tend Weasenham’s toothache,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Rougham was with Matilde by then, so could not have obliged, but Hamecotes did not summon him anyway. We know this for a fact, because Rougham’s students recorded all the consultations he missed, and Weasenham’s name is not on their list.’

‘He fetched you instead, so you would not be available to inspect Okehamptone. When I arrived – with the inept Paxtone in tow – the Oxford scholars harried me to be brief. They wanted to be done with Okehamptone’s body, so they could go about the far more important business of praying for his soul. Meanwhile, the Oxford merchants had some guild meeting they were desperate to attend. They were not the only ones rushing me: Tynkell did, too. He told me to be quick, because he did not want trouble between us and Oxford so close to the Visitation. I should have resisted them all.’

‘You probably thought Tynkell was right at the time,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. ‘You had no reason to think otherwise.’

‘That will teach me to bend to the will of others in an attempt to be placatory. I should have waited for you to become available. But let us go back to this tale. Hamecotes ensured you were out of the way, probably hoping I would dispense with the services of a Corpse Examiner altogether. I did the next best thing, which was to secure Paxtone’s help, not realising that he has an aversion to cadavers, and Okehamptone went to his grave unexamined.’

‘You have left something out. The evening before Okehamptone died, Rougham went to Merton Hall to visit him. He saw his friend through an open window, and said that although Okehamptone might have become ill later, he was healthy at that point. In other words, Rougham did not think he was on the brink of contracting a fatal fever.’

‘And Polmorva, who answered the door to Rougham, declined to let him in. So, is Hamecotes our killer? Did he murder Gonerby in Oxford, then do away with Okehamptone here? We know he had Oxford connections.’

‘And then bit out his own throat, before tying a rope around his legs and hurling himself in the cistern?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I do not think so!’

‘Was it suicide, then? Because he was overcome with remorse?’

‘Can you reach your throat with your own teeth, Brother? Of course not: it is impossible. But the fact that Okehamptone, Gonerby and Hamecotes were killed in a similar – if not identical – manner means there is certainly a connection between them. Still, at least this exonerates Clippesby.’

‘It does not. All it does is demonstrate that Hamecotes did not want Okehamptone’s death investigated. Clippesby might still be our man – or perhaps he was in league with Hamecotes.’

‘We cannot prove they even knew each other, let alone conspired to kill together,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And all along you have been saying there is an Oxford dimension to these deaths. Clippesby has no links to Oxford. He loathes the place, and never goes there.’

‘So he says, but we only have his word that he visited his father in Norfolk when he went missing in February. He may have gone to Oxford and lied about it.’

‘So, after Hamecotes kindly helped Clippesby to conceal Okehamptone’s murder, Clippesby killed him, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That does not make sense.’

Michael sighed. ‘Clippesby is mad, so of course he will not act in a way we can understand. But perhaps I was wrong about this Oxford association. Hamecotes must have been taking orders from a Cambridge accomplice when he summoned you to Weasenham, because no Oxford stranger would know you are a diligent Corpse Examiner.’

Bartholomew scratched his head, uncertain. ‘Yes and no. Rougham knows I am careful, and may have mentioned the fact to Okehamptone, probably as an example of the kind of colleague he is obliged to endure. Then his friend Okehamptone may have told others – Polmorva and the merchants.’

‘Rougham,’ mused Michael. ‘That would explain why he was attacked, too. Rougham is fat, with plenty of flesh to be gnawed through before a throat can be reached, whereas Okehamptone was thin. It is possible that Clippesby’s fangs were thwarted by Rougham’s lard.’

Bartholomew glanced at the monk askance, thinking he would present no mean challenge to a set of teeth himself. ‘I do not understand why Clippesby should want to attack these people.’

‘We will not agree about Clippesby, so let us leave him for now and look at the other links between our town and Oxford.’

‘Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘He declined to let Rougham see Okehamptone, so it is clear he is involved in some sinister way.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Michael. ‘But there is also you. You attended Merton College, and you have a previous acquaintance with Duraunt and Polmorva. Indeed, you know Polmorva well enough to have made an enemy of him. He hates you, and you would like to see him indicted for murder.’

‘Only if he is guilty. I would not conspire to convict an innocent man.’

Michael shook his head despairingly. ‘I have failed miserably in my training of you, if you decline to use the opportunities that come your way to strike blows at ancient adversaries.’

‘Shall we confront Polmorva with our conclusions?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the monk’s levity – if levity it was. ‘We may be able to gauge whether we are close to a solution.’

‘We have not been able to gauge anything so far, and I think we should wait until we have more than a bag of unfounded speculations. Besides, we may just frighten our culprit – be he Polmorva or someone else – and cause him to flee, or even to kill again.’ Michael sighed, and turned his mind to other matters. ‘You should visit Stourbridge today and tell Clippesby he is going on a journey. He will certainly object, and I do not want a scene when my beadles arrive to escort him away on Monday.’

‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘It was not my idea. You do it.’

‘You are his physician. You must make him understand that this is the only way we can resolve the matter without harming him or compromising the College. The alternative is for him to throw himself on the mercy of the judicial system, and I do not think he should do that.’

‘No, he should not,’ agreed Bartholomew bitterly. ‘He will be found guilty just because he is different. Our society is intolerant of those who do not conform, no matter how inane the rules.’ He was thinking not only of Clippesby, but of Joan Wormynghalle.

‘We are talking about murder here, Matt,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And they are not just simple murders, either, but ones that show a violent hatred towards the victims. You saw those corpses, and witnessed the savagery with which they had been defiled. I am sorry for Clippesby, but if he did these terrible things, then I do not want him in my town. Supposing he was to take against Matilde for losing that silver dog? How would you feel if she was his next victim?’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say.

Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the whole affair regarding Clippesby, and postponed his visit for as long as possible. It was with a heavy heart that he set out for Stourbridge the following day, immediately after the Trinity Sunday mass. It was a glorious morning, with birds singing shrill and sweet, the sun warm on his face, and a pleasant breeze wafting the scent of flowers and clean earth towards him. He returned the greetings of people he knew, many of whom were out enjoying the new glories of their freshly cleaned town. Folk were delighted by the changes, superficial though they were, and talk of the impending Visitation was on everyone’s lips.

Bartholomew heard little of their excited babble, and felt burdened by the knowledge of what he was about to do. He walked slowly, although he knew it would only prolong the agony. He tried to tell himself that the Dominican would be well cared for in Rougham’s remote retreat, and that they were lucky the Gonville man was prepared to spend his own money looking after an ailing colleague. But this did not blunt the knowledge that imprisonment was a very cruel thing to do to a free spirit like Clippesby.

Eventually he arrived at the hospital, where he spent longer than necessary talking to Brother Paul and examining two other inmates. When he could defer his unpleasant duty no longer, he walked to the house where Clippesby was installed, and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The friar’s cell was at the end of a corridor, and comprised a small room with a single window. The window had stone mullions that were less than the length of a man’s hand apart, so it was impossible to squeeze between them and escape; the door was secured by a hefty bar placed between two iron wall loops, and a substantial lock. The key to the lock was on a hook outside the door, unreachable by the inmate, but conveniently accessible to anyone bringing food.

Bartholomew was shocked by the change two days had wrought on Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy. Clippesby’s face was grey, and his hair was greasy and unkempt. He did not turn when Bartholomew opened the door, and did not react at all when told the news that he was soon to be moved to a distant place, where he would never see friends or family again. Bartholomew shook his arm, to try to gain his attention, but Clippesby simply continued to gaze through the window at the green fields beyond, and would not speak. Finally, Bartholomew secured the door behind him, and walked back to Cambridge feeling even more miserable than he had on the way out.

He spent the afternoon trying to concentrate on his treatise on fevers, a text that had already reached prodigious dimensions. Writing it usually relaxed him and, although College rules forbade any kind of work other than religious on the Sabbath, he felt the treatise was more pleasure than labour; he often spent his leisure hours scribbling down his ideas, ranging from fevers’ symptoms and manifestations, to their treatment and how to avoid them. But even agues could not exorcise Clippesby from his mind, and he was grateful for even the smallest interruption that day.

He spent an hour helping Deynman with ‘difficult’ spellings, giving the student his entire attention on a matter he normally would have delegated to one of his teaching assistants. Then he joined in a lively debate among William’s Franciscans, which focused on the work of the great Dominican known simply as Perscrutator. William was predictably frenzied in his claims that the Dominican Order never produced good scholars, although he was unable to refute any of Perscrutator’s arguments pertaining to the definition of the elements. A large number of Fellows, students and commoners turned out to listen to the debate, although most were far more interested in William’s rabid antics than in understanding Perscrutator’s complex expositions.

At the evening meal, Bartholomew was pleased to note that Michael was as good as his word and ate only a modest portion of meat and a mere three pieces of bread. All vegetables, green or otherwise, were politely declined. That evening, when the sun was setting, sending rays of gold and red to play over the honey-coloured stone of Michaelhouse, Bartholomew wandered into the orchard, where there was a fallen apple tree that provided a comfortable seat for those wanting peace and silence.

He sat and stretched his legs in front of him, hoping Edith had reached London safely, and that her son was as delighted to see her as she expected. He thought about Matilde, and recalled her laughing at something he had said; he wondered whether she was smiling now, finding Rougham equally amusing. He considered visiting her, to ask the question that had been on his lips so many times that week, but was still not in the mood to propose in front of an audience. However, even the prospect of married life with Matilde could not take his mind off Clippesby, and his thoughts soon returned to dwell on the dull hopelessness he had seen in the Dominican’s eyes.

He decided solitude was not what he needed, so went to the kitchens instead. These were off limits to scholars, because they were the domain of the formidable Agatha; but Agatha liked Bartholomew, and seldom ordered him to leave if he wanted company, or if he simply wanted to sit in the College’s warmest room. He was surprised when he entered the steamy, fat- and yeast-scented chamber to find not only Michael, but Langelee, too. Agatha was in her great wicker throne by the hearth, sewing in the fading light that filtered through the windows. The Master reclined on a bench, playing with his new astrolabe, while Michael perched on a stool by the fire. Bartholomew was not impressed to see him devouring oatcakes thickly smeared with salted lard.

‘I was hungry,’ said the monk defensively when he saw the physician’s disapproving gaze. ‘And anyway, these are only oatcakes. They will not make me fat.’

‘The white grease will, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially in that kind of quantity.’

‘We were talking about Clippesby,’ said Michael, changing the subject as he rammed one of the oatcakes defiantly into his mouth. ‘I confided all our suspicions to Langelee and Agatha – along with what your medical colleague in Norfolk has agreed to do for us.’ He looked hard at his friend, to tell him that Rougham’s role in the affair had not been revealed.

‘I cannot believe Clippesby would do such terrible things,’ said Agatha unhappily. ‘He is a gentle man, not a killer. Tell them, Matthew.’

‘I have,’ said Bartholomew, flopping on a stool next to Michael and taking one of the oatcakes. The fat was so generously applied that he thought he might be sick, and put it back half eaten. ‘But no one will listen to me.’

‘The evidence is there, plain for all to see,’ said Michael patiently. ‘I know this is an unpleasant – and even a painful – business, but we must be realistic. Occasionally, people change – they turn into something nasty, and Clippesby is a case in point. He has always been strange, and we have always been wary of him. We believed he was involved in something sinister during his first term at Michaelhouse – remember, Matt? – so we should not be surprised to learn now that his madness has transmuted itself into something dangerous with the passing of time.’

‘You will find you are wrong,’ warned Agatha. Bartholomew was surprised to see tears glittering in her small, pig-like eyes. He knew she was protective of all Michaelhouse’s scholars, but he had not appreciated how deeply she cared for the quiet Clippesby.

‘I do not see how,’ said Langelee. ‘There are too many arrows of circumstance pointing in his direction. If it were a case of one or two, I would be loath to send him away, too, but it is not. Some of our students are little more than children, Agatha, and we cannot risk their lives just because we want to believe in Clippesby’s innocence. It is our duty to protect them.’

‘We are lucky Matt has the contacts to arrange this solution,’ added Michael. ‘It is not unknown for Colleges to rid themselves of unwanted Fellows by murdering them, you know. I have investigated more than one case where a man has been killed because his colleagues did not like his scholarship, his religious ideas or his personality.’

‘It would be a lot less expensive,’ mused Langelee, looking as if he might consider such an option himself, should the need arise. Bartholomew was grateful Rougham had ensured it would not.

‘He will die if you lock him away from his animals,’ said Agatha tearfully.

Langelee frowned, and then looked at Michael. ‘She is right. Are you sure there is no other way?’

‘None I can think of, but I am willing to entertain any ideas you have. You need to come up with something quickly, though, because he leaves first thing tomorrow morning. It is better that way.’

‘Better for whom?’ demanded Agatha. ‘For the Archbishop of Canterbury, so a lunatic will not assail his priestly eyes? For the University, because we can allow nothing to interfere with our plans to impress Islip, and risk him founding his new College elsewhere? For Michaelhouse, because we do not want the embarrassment of a Fellow who is unlike the rest of us? It is certainly not better for poor Clippesby, banished to the barren wastes of a foul and dangerous county.’

‘It is Norfolk, Agatha, not Armageddon,’ said Michael. ‘Norfolk.’

‘That is what I was talking about,’ snapped Agatha. ‘I know what that place is like. It is full of lunatics, lepers and heretics.’

‘Clippesby should feel at home, then,’ said Langelee, ignoring Michael’s indignant splutter. The monk, like many Cambridge scholars, hailed from Norfolk.

‘We will never know, will we?’ said Agatha in a voice that dripped with hostility. She stood, snatched the oatcakes from Michael, and took them to the pantry, her large hips swaying purposefully. The monk watched his repast disappear with dismay. Her voice echoed from the cool room that was used to store perishable foods. ‘After you have exiled him, we will never hear whether he is happy or sad, alive or dead.’

‘I will make enquiries,’ promised Bartholomew.

‘You had better,’ she said coldly, coming to re-occupy her chair. ‘Because I can make life very uncomfortable for scholars who do not please me.’ She gazed significantly at a pile of laundry, on the top of which sat Langelee’s cloak.

‘At last!’ the Master exclaimed. ‘I thought you had lost it, you kept it so long.’

‘Perhaps it is ready now, but perhaps it is not,’ retorted Agatha belligerently. She turned on Michael. ‘And do not come here expecting edible treats, either. There will be no more of those until you convince me that Clippesby is content and thriving. And I may decline to do the laundry for a while, too. That will bring you to your senses.’

‘The whole College will stink if no one has clean clothes,’ objected Langelee. ‘Within a month we will all smell like the Chancellor.’

‘You are lucky to have me,’ said Agatha sullenly. ‘I am the best laundress in Cambridge, and every Michaelhouse scholar clamours for my services. It is not like that at King’s Hall, where half of them do their own, lest their precious garments are ruined.’

‘They manage their own washing because of cost,’ corrected Michael. ‘The King’s Hall laundress is outrageously expensive.’

‘Dodenho pays Wolf to do his, while Norton prefers to hire me,’ Agatha went on. ‘I charge him princely fees, but he makes no complaint. Meanwhile, Wormynghalle does his own, down by the wharves. I have seen him. He should not use the river for cleaning his clothes, though. It will make him reek.’

‘Wormynghalle does not reek,’ said Michael, starting to edge casually towards the pantry.

‘That is because you are used to Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Agatha. ‘He makes a cesspool smell like spring flowers.’

‘Wormynghalle probably does not want to hurt the laundress’s feelings by employing another washer-woman,’ Bartholomew said, in an attempt to explain the scholar’s odd behaviour in a way the others would understand, and so prevent rumours circulating about her. ‘He rinses his clothes somewhere that is not overlooked, so she will not see him and be offended.’

Agatha regarded him beadily. ‘You had better not be getting ideas. I am the laundress around here, and I wash the clothes. I do a good job, and I will not have you demanding to do your own. It would not be proper, and I would not stand for it.’

‘Quite right, too,’ said Michael ingratiatingly, taking another step towards the pantry. ‘I would never consider managing my own clothes – you always do it so splendidly.’

Agatha looked pleased. ‘I do,’ she agreed immodestly. ‘I am the finest laundress in Cambridge.’

‘In England,’ gushed Michael. ‘In the world, even. But my innards ache with hunger, so I shall retire to my bed and pass a miserable night. Unless, of course, there are oatcakes available …?’

‘There might be,’ said Agatha imperiously. ‘Are you saying I am better even than the laundresses in the King’s household?’

‘There is no comparison,’ said Michael desperately.

Agatha smiled in smug satisfaction. ‘Then perhaps one of you will write to the King on my behalf, and tell him I am willing to be of service – subject to him bringing his Court to Cambridge, of course. I would not like to move away.’

‘The oatcakes?’ whined Michael piteously.

‘They are for someone else,’ replied Agatha maliciously. ‘Matthew will collect them tomorrow morning and take them to Clippesby, to sustain the poor man on his journey to Hell.’

When Bartholomew went to bed, he was restless and unsettled, and found sleep would not come. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours before he finally dropped into a doze, but his dreams teemed with uncomfortable images of Clippesby. Deciding he would rather be doing something better than exhausting himself with nightmares, he rose, donned the hated yellow liripipe and left. Matilde would be asleep, and Rougham no longer needed his ministrations, but a patient called Isnard was happy for company at any hour. He had recently lost a leg, and enforced physical inactivity meant he slept little and was always grateful when visitors relieved his boredom. Intending to leave Michaelhouse through the back door and use the towpath, Bartholomew aimed for the orchard.

He had not gone far when he became aware that he was not the only person out in the darkness. He glanced up at the sky, and gauged it was probably long past midnight: not a time when law-abiding scholars should be wandering around. He wondered whether it was a student, off to meet his paramour, and hoped it was not one of his own class. He had more than enough to worry about, without being concerned for errant students.

The figure making his way through the fruit trees was large and burly. The only one of Bartholomew’s students with such a build was Falmeresham, and Bartholomew strained his eyes, trying to assess whether it was him. But it was too dark, and the person had taken the precaution of wrapping himself in a cloak with a hood that hid everything except his size. Bartholomew reflected. William and Langelee were also big men who owned long cloaks, and so was Michael. But the figure in the orchard was not quite vast enough to be Michael, and nor did it waddle.

When the man reached the gate he removed the bar and laid it gently in the grass. He opened the door, and looked carefully in both directions before letting himself out. Bartholomew followed, and watched him reach the High Street, then turn left. The physician trotted after him, hoping it was late enough for Tulyet’s guards and Michael’s beadles to have eased their patrols, and that neither of them would be caught. The scholar ahead of him did not seem to be suffering from any such qualms, and his progress along the High Street towards the Jewry could best be described as brazen.

As the figure passed King’s Hall, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated him, and Bartholomew recognised the cloak with its rabbit-fur collar. It was Langelee, wearing the garment he had retrieved from Agatha earlier that evening. Now he could see the mantle, Bartholomew thought the figure was unmistakably the Master’s, with its barrel-shaped body and confident swagger; it was also very like Langelee not to care who saw him as he flouted University rules by striding around after the curfew. Bartholomew had kept to the shadows as he stalked his prey, but Langelee had not once glanced behind him.

Bartholomew immediately assumed that Langelee was going to meet Alyce Weasenham, and was staggered to think the Master would risk cavorting with her while her husband slumbered in the same house. Langelee reached the stationer’s shop and eased himself into a doorway opposite. From this vantage point, he proceeded to stare at the silent building for some time. Then, abruptly, he darted out and shot towards the Jewry. Before he disappeared down one of its narrow lanes he paused and looked back, as if to ensure no one was watching. Bartholomew could only suppose he was making sure Alyce did not spot him as he embarked on a tryst with another woman.

With nothing better to do, Bartholomew followed him again, and for one agonising moment thought Langelee was going to knock at Matilde’s door. But the Master did not give it so much as a glance as he strode past. Emerging from the tangle of alleys between the Round Church and the Franciscan Friary, he began to move purposefully along the marshy road known as the Barnwell Causeway. He paused at the small bridge that spanned the filthy waters of the King’s Ditch, and Bartholomew saw a guard emerge from his hut to challenge him. The murmur of soft voices drifted on the still night air, and Bartholomew supposed coins were changing hands. When the transaction was completed, Langelee began walking again, and the soldier ducked back inside his shelter.

Bartholomew hesitated. He had no money to bribe guards, and nor did he want them gossiping about how Michaelhouse Fellows shadowed their masters at odd hours of the night. If he wanted to learn what Langelee was doing, there was only one course open to him: to bypass the sentry and try to sneak across the bridge without being seen. He was not especially talented at stealth, and it occurred to him to mind his own business and go home, but Langelee’s odd mission had piqued his interest, and he wanted to know where the philosopher was going.

He walked as close to the shelter as he dared, then scrambled off the causeway to the lower ground surrounding it. He tiptoed clumsily through rutted fields until he reached the stinking black ooze of the King’s Ditch. The bridge was just above his head, so he climbed up the bank and listened hard. The soldier was singing to himself, and he concluded the man would not be doing that if he thought someone was trying to creep past him. As quickly as he could, Bartholomew darted across the bridge and dropped down the bank on the other side. He waited, breathing hard, and pondering what explanation he would give if he was caught. But the guard continued to warble, and Bartholomew felt fortunate that the fellow was so pleased with the money Langelee had given him that he had relaxed his vigilance.

After a moment, Bartholomew began to move forward again, creeping through the fields until he deemed it was safe to climb back on to the causeway. In the faint moonlight, he saw that Langelee had made good headway, and was obliged to run hard to catch up. Despite the noise he was sure he was making, Langelee still did not look around.

The causeway skirted St Radegund’s Priory, where the Benedictine nuns were known to entertain men on occasion, and Bartholomew supposed Langelee had secured himself an appointment. But the Master stalked past the convent with its untidy scattering of outbuildings and headed for the Fens. And for Stourbridge, Bartholomew thought grimly, at last understanding what was happening: Langelee was going to visit Clippesby.

Bartholomew hung back, not sure what to do. Was Langelee planning to warn Clippesby that he was about to be spirited away to a remote institution from which he would never escape? But Langelee had thought that an acceptable option the previous evening, and Bartholomew did not see why he should change his mind. Was he going to say his farewells? Langelee was an odd man, bluff and thoughtless one moment, considerate the next. Perhaps he had a soft spot for Clippesby, and wanted to wish him well before he began his exile. But what really concerned Bartholomew was a darker, more sinister option: murder. No Master wanted it said that his College had lunatic Fellows locked away in distant parts of the countryside, and Bartholomew had a sick feeling that Langelee intended to resolve the Clippesby problem once and for all.

He followed the Master to the outskirts of the hospital, and watched as he opened a gate and headed for the house that had become Clippesby’s prison. Bartholomew followed, thinking no further ahead than his intention to protect Clippesby, but bitterly aware that he would need the element of surprise if he wanted to win the confrontation. Langelee was an experienced and able brawler, and Bartholomew doubted he could best him in a fair fight. He took one of the surgical knives from his medical bag, and hoped that would even the odds – at least for long enough to allow Clippesby to escape.

Langelee crept up the stairs, and Bartholomew heard the key being taken from the wall. He winced when the wooden steps creaked under his own feet as he climbed in stealthy pursuit. He watched Langelee remove the heavy bar, then open the door to Clippesby’s chamber. He realised he would have to make his move immediately, since he did not think the Master would engage in pleasant conversation before he executed his troublesome Fellow. As quickly and as softly as he could, he sped along the corridor and burst into the room, wrapping one arm around Langelee’s throat and pressing his knife against it firmly enough to ensure Langelee would understand he meant business.

Clippesby was sitting inside his cell. He had been reading by candlelight, and gazed in astonishment at the sudden and violent intrusion.

‘Matt! Did you bring those books you promised? You forgot to leave them yesterday – perhaps because I was not very welcoming when you came. I was grieving, because the wren who comes to take crumbs from my windowsill had died.’ He swallowed hard, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘Died?’ asked Bartholomew warily, wondering whether Clippesby, deprived of human victims, had resorted to dispatching his beloved animals as a means to satisfy his bloodlust.

‘The cat got her – it was my fault for encouraging her to be trusting.’ Clippesby’s voice wavered, but then he took a deep breath and pulled himself together. ‘Put down the knife, will you? This is a small room and I do not want an accident, especially one resulting from horseplay.’

‘I am not playing,’ said Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Let me go!’ ordered a familiar voice that shook with indignant fury. ‘Agatha?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Of course it is me!’ she snapped, throwing him off and adjusting the clothes he had ruffled. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘Agatha has been bringing me food and other supplies ever since I was brought here,’ said Clippesby when all three were sitting comfortably, and Agatha had finally, if reluctantly, accepted Bartholomew’s increasingly effusive apologies for daring to lay hands on her person.

‘It rained when I came here last night,’ explained Agatha. ‘I was drenched by the time I returned to Michaelhouse, and my cloak is still wet. Langelee forgot to take his with him earlier, and we are about the same height, so I decided to borrow it. I do not think he will mind.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Master certainly would object if he thought the laundress was wearing his distinctive clothes to conduct dubious nocturnal errands, particularly when it had led to at least one person assuming he was up to no good.

‘I suppose you saw the garment and thought I was him,’ said Agatha, affronted. ‘I do not know how you could confuse us, Matthew. Langelee is hefty, while I retain the slim figure of my youth.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what else to say without incriminating himself. If the truth were known, Agatha was larger than Langelee, and there was little to choose between them from behind. ‘You hesitated when you went past the stationer’s shop, and I concluded you were Langelee looking for Alyce,’ he added, when she looked peeved that he had not immediately agreed with her assessment.

‘Of course I was careful when I passed that place,’ stated Agatha belligerently. ‘Weasenham would have invented all manner of lies, had he seen me. Did you know he has been telling people that I seduced the Master?’

‘Has he?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled how an idle quip by Michael had taken on a life of its own in the mouths of Deynman, William and the stationer.

‘I suppose he must have spotted me coming here one night,’ she went on. ‘However, it is Langelee who usually lingers around that shop after dark, not me. He is conducting astrological observations that he cannot perform at Michaelhouse, because it is too near Saturn. He told me himself.’

‘He has a lover,’ supplied Clippesby helpfully. ‘Edwardus Rex told me – he is the dog who lets Yolande de Blaston and her family share his house. It is none other than Alyce herself, and they often meet to frolic in Weasenham’s back yard.’

‘Do they?’ asked Agatha distastefully. ‘I should have known Langelee was not hanging around at that time of night for the benefit of his studies. Nor should I be surprised that you knew what he was up to, Clippesby. Very little happens that escapes your attention.’ Clippesby gestured around him. ‘And look where it has brought me.’

‘My nephew guards the bridge over the King’s Ditch,’ said Agatha, unable to think of anything to say to comfort him, so resorting to practical matters. ‘He knows better than to ask me questions, but how did you get past him, Matthew?’

‘I was quiet,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to admit to climbing down river banks and creeping through fields. ‘Does no one else ever challenge you? You must have met soldiers or beadles at some point.’

‘A couple of watchmen looked as though they fancied their chances,’ she replied grimly, ‘but they backed off when I drew my sword.’

‘Your sword?’ echoed Bartholomew weakly, grateful he had not confronted her on the causeway.

She hauled a substantial weapon from the belt around her waist. ‘It belonged to my father, and is no longer sharp, but it does what I want: makes people mind their own business and leave me to go about mine.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I had no idea you were so well prepared.’

‘She has been good to me,’ said Clippesby fondly. ‘I would not have survived here without her friendly face coming to me every night.’

‘Every night?’ Bartholomew was astounded. ‘How do you manage to leave the College without the porters seeing?’

‘Through the orchard door,’ explained Agatha. Her expression became disapproving. ‘But I am not the only one who uses it – someone has been leaving it unbarred. Still, I thwart his nefarious plans by locking him out when I get back.’

‘That is you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Agatha was equally astonished when she realised what had happened. ‘But you do not need to sneak around like an errant undergraduate – Langelee has given you permission to see your patients at any time, so you can come and go as you please.’

‘He has been visiting Matilde in the Jewry,’ said Clippesby, keen to be helpful. ‘That is why he could not use the front gate. The College cat told me all about it.’

‘Did she, indeed?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing Clippesby had heard the rumours during one of his bids for freedom.

‘William told me you were courting Matilde,’ said Agatha. ‘But I did not believe him. I know you have a liking for her, but I did not think you would spend every night at her house for nigh on three weeks because of the damage it might do to her reputation.’ She regarded the amber liripipe with rank disdain, and reached out to finger it. ‘This is nasty.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is.’

‘It will not make you more attractive to Matilde, either,’ predicted Agatha authoritatively. ‘It is not the kind of garment she would admire. Like me, she has elegant tastes. I recommend you dispense with it, and let me sew you something more suitable. But why have you chosen to woo the poor woman so flagrantly of late?’

‘He is doing it for me,’ said Clippesby. He started to explain with a clarity Bartholomew found disconcerting. ‘Rougham was attacked one night by a wolf. I drove the beast away, but the poor doctor had been so badly mauled that his senses were disturbed. Unfortunately, he then claimed that I was the wolf rather than his saviour. He agreed to keep his accusations to himself, but only if Matilde allowed him to recuperate at her house, and Matthew provided the necessary medical care. I told them it was not I who did him the harm, but no one would believe me.’

‘And that is why you are here,’ said Agatha in understanding. ‘We were told it was because your wits are awry due to the warm spring weather.’

‘They are awry,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of his medical diagnosis. ‘More than usual.’

‘They are going to send you to a hospital in Norfolk,’ said Agatha to Clippesby. ‘That is why I came here tonight: to set you free.’

‘Do not run,’ said Bartholomew to Clippesby. ‘It will only confirm your guilt in the eyes of the others, and I am still working to exonerate you.’

‘Yes,’ said Clippesby thoughtfully. ‘You have at least tried to believe in my innocence, although I know it has been difficult for you. But I think I will take Agatha up on her offer. I would rather be free and outlawed than living here like a criminal.’

‘But where will you go?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I have friends. Sheep are accommodating creatures, and there is a siege of herons at the river-’

‘Stop!’ commanded Agatha angrily. ‘It is when you talk like this that people doubt your sanity. You are more of an enemy to yourself than anyone else will ever be. At least pretend to be normal.’

‘Very well,’ said Clippesby with a sigh. ‘I shall go nowhere very far. There are plenty of woods where I can sleep during the day, while at night I shall go to Cambridge and try to find the real killer, since Michael seems unable to do it. It is the only way I will ever clear my name.’

‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘It is only a matter of time before someone associates you with these murders and harms you. Let Michael do his work. He will find the culprit.’

‘Perhaps he will, but by that time I will be in Norfolk,’ argued Clippesby. ‘Locked away with lunatics. And Langelee may find he prefers Michaelhouse without me, and will see my absence as an opportunity to secure himself a new Master of Music and Astronomy. I cannot take that chance.’

‘Hide well,’ advised Agatha. ‘I will bring you several different sets of garments. Matthew believed I was Langelee, just because I was wearing his cloak, so you should take advantage of the fact that people look but they do not see.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, standing to block the door. ‘This is madness.’

‘A poor choice of words, Matt,’ said Clippesby with a rueful grin. ‘But you are wrong: what would be madness is to stay here. Who knows? Perhaps someone will shoot me as I am escorted into exile, just to bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion. You obviously believed that was what Langelee intended to do, or you would not have pressed a knife to the throat you thought was his in an attempt to save me.’

Bartholomew shook his head, and wished Clippesby was not quite so astute. ‘Escaping will solve nothing. Let me go to Rougham and say you cannot leave tomorrow. I will tell him you have an ague and need to rest. Then-’

‘He will know you are buying time,’ said Clippesby. He stood and walked towards the door. ‘I am leaving now. Please do not stop me.’

‘But someone may harm you if you are caught, or the merchants may drag you back to Oxford to answer for Gonerby’s murder.’ Bartholomew appealed to Agatha. ‘Surely you can see the sense in what I say? Help me persuade him.’

‘Once he is in this Norfolk hospital, he will never be allowed out. He will talk about his animals, and the physicians there will insist he stays, even when Michael proves he had nothing to do with biting people. Let him through, Matthew.’ Agatha’s sword was still drawn and she waved it at him.

‘What will you do?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Stab me with it? Sit down, Clippesby, and . . .’

Clippesby turned, and Bartholomew assumed he was going to recline on his bed again, but at the last moment he swivelled around and barrelled towards the door. The physician braced himself, but Clippesby had gathered considerable momentum, and he was bowled from his feet. He recovered quickly, and grabbed one of the Dominican’s legs. He was far stronger than Clippesby, and could easily have overpowered him, but he had reckoned without Agatha. She ripped his fingers away from the friar, and Clippesby wriggled free to race down the short passage. The Dominican’s feet thundered on the stairs and then there was silence.

While Clippesby’s footsteps faded into nothing, Bartholomew tried to struggle free of the suffocating grip Agatha had managed to secure on him, but she tightened her hold in a way that threatened to break his neck, and he found himself growing weak from lack of air. She eased off when she heard him choke, and, as soon as she did so, he shouted as loudly as he could, to raise the alarm. He still held his dagger, but he could hardly stab her with it, so he dropped it and used both hands to break free. She grunted in pain as he forced her away, and almost took a tumble. Bartholomew took a moment to ensure she was unharmed, then tore after Clippesby, almost falling down the stairs in his haste.

Clippesby had a good start, and was running towards the dense woods that lay beyond the hospital’s fields. The Dominican was good at hiding, and Bartholomew knew he would never find him once he had reached the trees. He ran harder, aware that Agatha was behind him, threatening all manner of dire consequences if he did not let Clippesby go. Lights were being kindled in Brother Paul’s house, and Bartholomew could hear the agitated, fretful voices of the inmates as they demanded to know what was causing the disturbance.

Clippesby had just reached the edge of the copse when, by forcing a massive burst of speed, Bartholomew managed to catch up with him. He grasped the hem of the Dominican’s flying habit and pulled hard, jerking him from his feet. Clippesby stumbled and Bartholomew dropped on top of him, aiming to hold him down with the weight of his body until he had regained the strength to secure him properly. Then someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head upwards in a motion that made the bones in his neck crick in protest.

‘Agatha!’ he gasped. ‘Let go!’

But he heard Agatha bellowing in the distance, and knew she was still labouring across the uneven ground towards him. He struggled. There was a flash of brightness in the moonlight, and something jabbed at his throat. He threw himself back, towards his attacker, aware of Clippesby wriggling away from under him. His assailant did not lessen his grip, and the metal glittered again as it descended towards his neck. There was a thick, rank smell, too, that made him want to gag.

Clippesby leapt at them with a wild screech, knocking them both off balance. Bartholomew’s attacker grunted in pain as the full weight of two men landed on top of him. The physician twisted as hard as he could, aiming to break the grip around his throat, but the fellow held on with grim determination.

He saw a foot swing out and Clippesby reeled, stunned by a kick to the side of his head. Then the attacker turned his full attention to Bartholomew. Yet another flash, and Bartholomew felt something tearing at him. Again, he detected the stench. He wriggled and squirmed with all his might, determined to prevent the blade from landing on his neck. But he was running out of strength, and the vicelike grip was depriving him of air. He became dizzy, and weaker. Stars exploded before his eyes and he flailed around in increasing desperation as he sought to drag breath into his protesting lungs.

Just when he thought he would lose the battle, there was a thump and a grunt, followed by rapidly receding footsteps. Clippesby stood there with a stone in his hand, while Agatha still lumbered towards them. Bartholomew started to follow his attacker through the trees, but there was no power in his legs, and he knew there was no point in blundering through the undergrowth in the dark. The trees blotted out any light from the moon, and the copse was a tangled mat of vegetation that would make pursuit all but impossible. He dropped to his knees, the craven exhilaration of the chase replaced by a tide of exhaustion that left him shaking and sluggish.

‘Who was that?’ gasped Agatha, reaching them at last. ‘What happened?’

Clippesby crouched next to Bartholomew and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not worry, he has gone now. I hit him hard in the chest with a rock, and he realised he would have no luck here tonight.’

‘Who?’ demanded Agatha, her face flushed and sweat coursing down her red-veined cheeks. ‘He tried to kill Matthew with something shiny. I saw it sparkling in the moonlight. I will have his guts out for this!’ She wielded the sword in a way that indicated she meant what she said.

‘It was him,’ said Clippesby simply. ‘The wolf.’

‘That was no wolf,’ said Agatha. A nightjar called, low and hoarse, and in the distance Bartholomew could hear Brother Paul trying to soothe Stourbridge’s inmates, who were alarmed by the commotion Clippesby’s flight had caused. ‘It was a man. I saw him silhouetted against the moonlit sky. It was a man, with something brassy in his hand.’

‘Metal teeth,’ said Bartholomew. His skin crawled when he recalled them slashing at him, and he was unable to repress a shudder. ‘That is how he kills his victims. I did not think human fangs could cause such damage, but these were made of steel, and were honed to a vicious sharpness.’

He put his hand against his neck, half expecting to find it gashed, but the liripipe and its voluminous folds had protected him. He pulled off the garment, and saw it was shredded to ribbons.

‘I cannot mend this,’ said Agatha, taking it from him. ‘It is beyond my skills with a needle. Still, it did not suit you anyway; it made you look like a jester.’

‘Are you sure he has gone?’ Bartholomew asked, looking around uneasily and wishing he had not dropped his knife in Clippesby’s room.

Agatha nodded. ‘You were lucky to escape alive – he meant business. I could see it in the way he moved.’

‘Who was he?’ asked Bartholomew, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

‘It was the wolf,’ said Clippesby again. ‘I have already told you.’

‘I was too far away to see his face,’ said Agatha, pursing her lips at Clippesby to warn him to curtail his animal fantasies. ‘But he was as tall as you, Matthew, and he looked strong.’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and turned her attention back to the liripipe. ‘That is disgusting! He smeared dog turds on you. He must have done it to spite me.’

Bartholomew was bewildered. ‘To spite you?’

‘Because I will have to wash the thing,’ explained Agatha impatiently. ‘I am a laundress, am I not? He probably knows this sort of stain is not easy to remove.’

‘Look on the bright side,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that causing inconvenience in the College laundry was probably the last thing on the killer’s mind. ‘At least it is not stained with my blood.’

‘Why did he do such a thing?’ asked Clippesby, watching Agatha fling the garment away. ‘What would be the point? To add insult to injury?’

‘To make a wound fester,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘A cut with excrement driven into it may kill a victim later, if he survives the immediate injury. He is using it as a form of poison.’

‘That must have been what happened to Rougham,’ said Clippesby. ‘His wound went bad, but I saw for myself that the actual injury was not a fatal one.’

Bartholomew took a few steps towards the woods, not sure what to do next, but unsettled by the knowledge that the murderer was not far away. ‘We cannot let this man go, because he will kill again for certain. We must find him!’

Agatha grabbed his arm. ‘We could search all night and not succeed. Looking now is worse than hopeless, and he will be long gone, anyway. Tell Sheriff Tulyet to come tomorrow with some of his hunting hounds, and let him track this monster.’

‘Do you think Michael will believe me now?’ asked Clippesby. ‘He must see I am innocent, given that you have just had a nasty encounter with the wretch while I was pinned helplessly underneath you.’

‘Clippesby saved your life,’ stated Agatha, lest the physician had not realised. ‘I was too far away to help, and that lunatic – and I do not mean Clippesby – would have throttled you long before I arrived. This brave friar drove him off, armed only with a rock.’

‘I understand now how the wolf kills,’ said Clippesby, blushing at the compliment. ‘It is not easy to slash a throat with something as unwieldy as teeth – metal ones or your own – so he partially strangles his victims, to subdue them first. That was what he was doing to Rougham when I intervened. Then he rips their necks with his tainted fangs when they are too weak to fight. Nothing is left to chance; he is a thorough executioner.’

‘Not thorough enough,’ Agatha pointed out. ‘He did not kill Rougham, and now he has failed with Matthew – twice, if you include the time with the spade in the church.’

‘That was not me, either,’ said Clippesby firmly. ‘However, I have been thinking about it – analysing the details you gave me, along with information supplied by Agatha and a crow who happened to be watching – and I have reached a logical conclusion, based on facts.’

‘Go on,’ said Bartholomew, not sure whether he could trust the ‘facts’ supplied by the crow.

‘The wolf has a very specific way of killing. He claimed three victims – that we know about – before the assault on you. Therefore, we can assume that he is content with his method, and there is no reason for him to change it. By contrast, the man who attacked you on Wednesday morning gave up very easily when he thought he would not succeed, and I think the wolf is more determined than that. It was not easy to drive him off when he hurt Rougham, and it was not easy tonight. Ergo, the wolf and the man who attacked you with a spade are not one and the same.’

‘Two killers on the loose?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘The spade-man did not kill you,’ Clippesby pointed out. ‘And, from what you say, he was clumsy and ill-prepared. He did not have a weapon with him, and was obliged to use a tool he found in the churchyard. He is not a killer, because, as far as we know, he has not yet taken a life.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think he believed I was Spryngheuse. He stayed his hand only when I said something that indicated he had the wrong man, but I am sure he had intended to kill. But Spryngheuse was dead within two days anyway, terrified into taking his own life.’

‘You may be right about that,’ acknowledged Clippesby. ‘But I am right about there being two killers: the wolf and your attacker are not the same man. The wolf would have used his teeth, not a spade.’

‘Metal teeth,’ said Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling away in another direction. ‘Polmorva once owned some of those, but Duraunt destroyed them years ago. Does this mean he did not, and that he kept them for future use? Or did Polmorva have another set made, after the originals disappeared?’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Agatha, bemused. ‘Are you saying the Oxford men have steel fangs instead of real ones?’

Bartholomew described Polmorva’s invention. ‘But they disappeared after I accused him of complicity in the sub-prior’s death. He thought I had stolen them while I assumed he had hidden them, ready to hire out again when the fuss had died down. Duraunt confessed to melting them down, although he did not see fit to mention this at the time, and exonerate me from Polmorva’s accusations.’

‘So, who is the wolf, then?’ asked Clippesby. ‘Duraunt or Polmorva?’

‘Duraunt is too frail to fight me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Polmorva is not, though.’

‘And he hates you,’ agreed Agatha. ‘However, I am told you defeated him with ease when you fought at the cistern, so are you sure he is strong enough?’

‘He must be, because otherwise it means the wolf is Duraunt. Duraunt does not want me dead.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Clippesby softly. ‘The Merton Hall chickens heard him telling his friends that he offered you a Fellowship at Oxford, and was deeply hurt when you elected to come here instead. He also thinks you are different from the young student he knew and loved.’

‘I grew up,’ said Bartholomew tersely. ‘I became more practical and less idealistic, but so do we all.’

‘Not all,’ said Clippesby pointedly. ‘Some of us cling to our naïveté, hoping it will protect us from the horrors of the world. Sometimes it works, but most of the time we are exposed to it regardless. You should not dismiss Duraunt from your list of suspects too readily. The stoat who lives at the Cardinal’s Cap tells me he is belligerent once full of ale. Drunks can be strong.’

‘No,’ insisted Bartholomew doggedly. ‘Not Duraunt.’

‘He lied about the teeth,’ Agatha pointed out. ‘He said they were destroyed, but they were not. They are here, in Cambridge, being used for a far more sinister purpose than helping old monks gnaw their meat. The wolf must be him.’

‘And it was definitely you he was after,’ added Clippesby. ‘He does not perceive me as a threat – he could have come to the hospital any time and dispatched me at his leisure. It was you he wanted, just as he wanted Rougham, not me, the first time I encountered him.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew in despair. ‘I do not understand!’

‘He thinks you are close to revealing his identity and is determined to stop you,’ said Clippesby. ‘Whatever direction your investigation is taking is obviously the right one.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘There must be some other explanation.’

‘So you said, but speculating will get us nowhere,’ said Agatha, looking up at the sky. ‘Dawn is not far off, and we should be about our business before anyone finds out what we have been doing: Clippesby escaping, me visiting lunatics, and Matthew stalking College laundresses.’

‘I still cannot let you go,’ said Bartholomew to Clippesby, dragging his thoughts away from Duraunt. ‘Especially not now. You have saved my life, and I want to do the same for you.’

‘But we have established that the wolf does not have designs on me.’ Clippesby smiled wryly. ‘He probably believes I am too addled, which goes to show a little eccentricity has its advantages.’

‘You are more than a little eccentric,’ said Agatha bluntly. ‘You are stark raving mad.’

‘I am not worried about the wolf …about the killer harming you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am concerned about the Oxford merchants and others who may seize you as a scapegoat. You cannot stay at Stourbridge, though; you are not safe here, either. Not now.’

‘Well, if he cannot stay here, and you will not let him escape, then where is left?’ demanded Agatha. ‘He is not a bird, whatever he might think himself, and he cannot fly away.’

‘I know somewhere,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one will think to look there, and he will be safe until this is over.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha. ‘Then lead us to it.’