The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 12

‘I told you so!’ gasped Michael as he hurried along the High Street with Bartholomew and Langelee in tow. ‘Clippesby is our man. All this rubbish about the wolf was a ruse. There is no wolf. If Wolf is involved, then it is as a victim, and he is floating in a well somewhere with his throat bitten out.’

Bartholomew was finding it difficult to move as quickly as he wanted. People had poured into the town from the surrounding villages, and they blocked his way. Everyone was wearing his or her best clothes, so dull homespun browns and creams were virtually absent, and the streets were alive with tunics and kirtles of red, yellow, green, blue, orange and purple. There was a heady scent of perspiration and perfumes, and the more usual aroma of sewage was almost entirely absent. People’s faces were intense, determined to see, touch or even speak to England’s leading churchman, and Bartholomew was painfully aware that many of them would go to considerable lengths to ensure they did so. He heard townsfolk muttering about scholars monopolising the Archbishop, and scholars mumbling back that Islip’s time was too valuable to waste on layfolk. It did not bode well for the Visitation passing off peacefully.

‘It was not Clippesby who attacked me at Stourbridge,’ said Bartholomew, trying to move through the crowd without jostling anyone and concentrate on refuting Michael’s conclusions at the same time. ‘I was sitting on top of him when that happened.’

‘Dick was right: there are two of them,’ said Michael breathlessly. ‘Clippesby and someone else. I allowed myself to be influenced by your arguments, which were based on sentimentality: you are fond of the man and wanted him to be innocent. But he is not.’

‘All I can say is thank God you did not treat him at Michaelhouse,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps that is why he ordered his accomplice to kill you: you are the reason he was exiled to Stourbridge.’

‘Then why did he hit the wolf with a stone and drive him away?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of the increase in noise as Islip’s procession drew nearer. ‘He saved my life.’

‘That is probably how he wanted it to look,’ argued Langelee. ‘You have said all along that the killer is cunning, and Clippesby is a very clever man, for all his madness. Only a devilish mind would have thought to fish Hamecotes from the cistern and dump him in King’s Hall before Tulyet’s men reached it. And we know from Brother Paul that he has escaped several times.’

‘This is a damned nuisance,’ grumbled Michael, aware that his finery was becoming drenched in sweat. ‘I should be greeting the Archbishop, not chasing lunatics.’

‘Why does Clippesby want us to go to Merton Hall?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew. ‘He told Agatha you would understand. Do you?’

‘No – unless he has guessed the identity of the killer, and knows it is someone staying there.’ A sense of unease gripped Bartholomew. ‘I hope he does not attempt to confront the wolf alone.’

‘Clippesby is the killer, Matt,’ repeated Michael doggedly. ‘And he has summoned us to engage in some kind of confrontation, after which he imagines he will emerge triumphant. We shall have to be careful he does not draw us into a trap.’

The bell of St Mary the Less began to toll, indicating that the Archbishop and his entourage had reached the Trumpington Gate. The massive cheer that went up from the crowd was audible, even at the Great Bridge.

‘He is here,’ said Langelee grimly, as more trumpets blasted. ‘A grand gate-opening ceremony has been arranged before Islip enters the town officially, which means we have about an hour before he reaches St Mary the Great.’

‘We must have Clippesby under lock and key before then,’ said Michael. ‘All of us – Masters, Fellows and certainly the Senior Proctor – are supposed to attend a service of thanksgiving before Islip processes to the Hall of Valence Marie for a feast. I do not want Clippesby seeing him as his own personal meal, and using his teeth on the man.’

‘We have the teeth,’ Bartholomew pointed out, feeling them bang up and down in his medical bag as he moved. ‘The killer cannot bite anyone without them.’

‘He may apply his own,’ said Michael, struggling to keep up with his more agile colleagues.

Bartholomew saw the monk’s flushed face and heaving chest, and slowed further still, not wanting him to have a seizure. He pulled the steel fangs from his bag as he walked, and inspected them properly for the first time. They were more or less how he remembered them, although they were tarnished with age. The only difference was that the incisors had been honed to a vicious sharpness – keen enough to draw blood even from the lightest touch. They were expertly made, and the hinges on either side were well oiled and in good working order. Uncomfortably, he wondered how they had come to be in Cambridge, and kept returning to the same conclusion: Duraunt had brought them. He had not destroyed them, as he had claimed, but had kept them for some reason he had declined to share.

They arrived at Merton Hall to find it strangely deserted. No servants were in the grounds; Bartholomew supposed they had all gone to watch the Archbishop. The silence was unsettling, and he thought Michael was right to be worried about a trap. The monk hammered on the door, then opened it when there was no answer. He leaned against a wall to catch his breath, and indicated with a wave of his hand that Bartholomew and Langelee should look upstairs. While they obliged, he used the time to inspect a pile of saddlebags that were packed and waiting by the door.

Bartholomew and Langelee crept up the stairs and entered the hall. Bartholomew held one of his surgical knives, while the Master produced a massive ornamental dagger with a jewel-studded hilt. The hall was empty, so they aimed for the solar. When Bartholomew hauled open the door, Langelee shot inside with his weapon raised, but no one was there. The grubby possessions of Eudo and Boltone were still scattered around, but there was no sign of the three merchants or the two surviving scholars. By the time they had finished searching the house, Michael had been through the saddlebags.

‘These belong to Duraunt and Polmorva,’ he said, pointing at the smallest two. ‘There is poppy juice in one and an academic tabard in the other. I think they intend to slip away during the Visitation.’

‘What about the others?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the monk was wrong, although flight at such a time looked suspicious, to say the least.

‘They belong to the merchants, judging by their contents,’ replied Michael. ‘Do you think this means they have a culprit to take back to Gonerby’s vengeful widow?’

‘You mean Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I hope they have not harmed him, on the grounds that it will be safer to take a corpse than a live victim.’

‘He told us to come here,’ said Langelee, annoyed. ‘But the place is empty. Was he trying to draw us away, do you think, sending us chasing shadows so he can kill the Archbishop more easily?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He does not want to kill Islip. Why would he do such a thing in sight of the entire town? It would ensure he is incarcerated permanently – assuming, of course, that he is captured alive and Tulyet’s men do not shoot him.’

‘He is mad,’ explained Langelee. ‘He does not see things in the same light as you and I.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He wanted us here for a reason, and I will not leave until I know what it is. I am going to search the grounds. Will you come with me?’

‘No, I will go to tell Tulyet what has happened,’ said Langelee, beginning to move away. He called back over his shoulder. ‘If you do find Clippesby, do not let him escape again. We will send him to this hospital in Norfolk first thing tomorrow.’

When he had gone, Bartholomew led Michael through Merton Hall’s vegetable plots. They were still and silent, contrasting starkly with the colour and movement along the High Street. A blackbird suddenly flapped away from a patch of peas, squawking its agitation and making them jump in alarm. And then it was gone, leaving them grinning in rueful amusement at the way it had startled them so badly.

They were almost at the end of the garden, near the Bin Brook and the cistern, when they heard the first sound. It was a voice and a splash. Raising his hand to warn Michael to take care, Bartholomew inched forward, watching where he put his feet, so he did not step on a dead twig and warn Clippesby – or whoever was there – that he was coming. Michael was less cautious, and there was a loud crunch as he trod on a snail. It sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent garden, and Bartholomew turned to give the monk an agonised scowl.

‘That is far enough,’ said a soft voice. ‘Do not move, or it will be the last thing you do.’

Bartholomew looked around slowly, and was startled to see a woman standing there. She wore a white wimple, while a light veil covered her nose and mouth in a fashion that had been popular among ladies some ten years before. Bartholomew looked hard at her, and saw a fair curl that was redolent of Alyce Weasenham. Her long blue kirtle accentuated the attractive curves of her sensual figure, and he was not surprised Langelee had been lured by her charms. But, at that moment, he was more concerned by the fact that she held a bow, and that she handled it in a way that suggested she knew how to use it. Around her shoulders was a quiver containing more arrows, and from its position Bartholomew sensed she could whip out a second one even as the first sped towards its target.

‘Where is Clippesby?’ demanded Michael. He took a step forward, then stopped when a quarrel thudded into the ground at his feet. As Bartholomew had anticipated, she had nocked another missile into her bow before the astonished monk had looked up from the spent one. ‘There is no need for that,’ he objected.

‘Do as you are told,’ she snapped. ‘Or the next one will be through your heart.’

Her determined eyes, and the way her hands were absolutely steady on her weapon, convinced both scholars that she was in earnest.

‘Help!’ came a weak voice from the cistern. Bartholomew saw that the heavy lid preventing leaves and other debris from falling inside the well had been replaced since Tulyet’s dredging. All that was open was the square hatch, which allowed a bucket to be raised and lowered. And someone had evidently gone through it.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, taking a tentative step forward. The woman did not object, so he took another, and another, until he was able to see. What he saw shocked him.

Four white faces gazed at him. They belonged to Polmorva, Duraunt, Eu and Abergavenny. The water was not far from the top of the well, but the walls were still slick, preventing anyone from climbing out. The lid made matters worse: it was so heavy that no one would be able to raise it from within. He heard Michael’s horrified gasp as he recalled his own recent experiences.

‘That witch has blocked the outflow,’ called Polmorva desperately. ‘It is only a matter of time before enough water floods in to drown us. There is no escape and we are too far away for our cries to be heard.’

‘There is always that nosy child,’ said ‘the witch’. ‘Perhaps his mother will bring him home from the Archbishop’s parade early, but perhaps she will not. At least you have a chance of life down there. You will die for certain if I shoot you.’ She waved her bow to indicate that Bartholomew and Michael were to join the Oxford men.

‘No,’ said Michael. His voice was unsteady and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘I am not going in there again. Loose an arrow at me if you will, but I will not jump in the pit.’

‘I will not shoot you,’ she said softly, swinging her bow round to point at Bartholomew. ‘I will kill your friend. You do not want him to die because you decline to obey a simple instruction, do you?’

‘Why are you doing this, Alyce?’ asked Michael, desperately trying to buy time in the distant hope that Langelee might bring Tulyet to scour Merton Hall’s grounds for the missing Clippesby. But Bartholomew knew Tulyet and Langelee thought the killer intended to strike at the Archbishop, and would never abandon their duties protecting him to engage in a search a mile away from the Visitation. ‘Are you this wolf, who kills with metal teeth?’

‘How is it that you think you know my name?’ she demanded in her turn.

‘Your veil does not hide your eyes,’ replied Michael. ‘What are you hoping to achieve by condemning us to such a dreadful death? To run off with Langelee? I can tell you now that he will not go. He likes being Master of Michaelhouse, and has already annulled one marriage to ensure he can continue. You will never be more than something pleasant to occupy his spare time.’

‘Shut up and get in the well,’ she ordered, beginning to draw on her bow. Her aim was unwavering, and Bartholomew was under no illusions of survival once she had loosed the thing.

He glanced inside the cistern, and saw water lapping not far from the top. Abergavenny was struggling to hold Duraunt high enough for him to breathe, while Eu and Polmorva were gasping and retching. It was an ugly way to go, and he knew Polmorva was right: they could shout and scream all they liked, but no one would hear them, particularly on the day of the Visitation, where every soul was watching the ecclesiastical pageant and cheering at the top of his voice.

Michael edged towards the hatch, and threw Bartholomew an agonised glance. The monk swallowed hard, and Bartholomew saw he was shaking as he sat slowly on the well’s low wall.

‘Where is Wormynghalle?’ the monk asked, lifting one leg so it trailed in the water. He could not prevent a shudder as wetness lapped across his foot. ‘Has he escaped? If so, then he will raise the alarm. Give yourself up, before any more damage is done.’

‘Wormynghalle is fetching horses,’ said Polmorva, shivering partly from the cold, but mostly from fear. He also saw the advantage of talking, to keep the hatch open for as long as possible. ‘For their escape. They are in this together.’

‘Wormynghalle and her ?’ asked Michael in surprise.

Eu spat water from his mouth. ‘The tanner is too recently rich to be trustworthy. I should never have agreed to travel with such a man – such a killer.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, making no move to jump. ‘Are you saying Wormynghalle murdered Gonerby, Okehamptone and Hamecotes?’

‘I witnessed Gonerby’s death,’ said Polmorva, coughing as Abergavenny tried to find a better way to hold Duraunt, and the water was churned into waves that slopped into his face. ‘The killer was not Wormynghalle, because I would have recognised his shape. But it could have been that witch. The villain wore a cloak with a hood, but he was the right size and height to have been her.’

‘Then it is good you will not live to tell anyone about it,’ she said coldly. ‘But you knew little to put us at risk. My brother and I never had anything to fear from you.’

‘Your brother?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘You are Wormynghalle’s sister? But he is too fat and pig-like to be related to you.’

‘Insult me again and I shall shoot you myself,’ came another voice from the path. The woman did not look around, but moved to one side as Wormynghalle came to stand by her side. They exchanged a brief glance, and Bartholomew saw with a sinking heart that the tanner also held a bow.

‘I might have known your motives were sinister,’ said Eu in disgust. ‘An upstart family like yours can know no honour. You are two of a kind – ambitious, greedy and cowardly.’

Wormynghalle raised his bow, his face flushed with fury, but his sister poked him with her elbow, and indicated he was to lower his weapon. Bartholomew was astonished that an aggressive, confident man like Wormynghalle should take orders from a woman, but she was most definitely the one in charge. The tanner hesitated for a moment, then trained the bow on Michael. His sister’s, meanwhile, had never wavered from Bartholomew.

‘We leave today,’ she said. ‘I can do no more in Cambridge, and it is time to go home. Now, for the last time, get in the cistern.’

Michael lifted his other leg over the wall. ‘I cannot swim.’

‘Then you will die quickly,’ she replied.

The water was now very near the top of the well, and Eu, appalled by the grim death that awaited him, decided to take matters into his own hands. Claiming that only Wormynghalles should die like rats, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and started to heave himself out, legs flailing as he fought to gain purchase. Michael scrambled out of the way as both Wormynghalle and his sister brought their bows to bear on the escaping merchant.

‘Cover Bartholomew,’ she snapped, when the physician, taking advantage of the diversion, ran several steps forward, intending to disarm at least one of them. Wormynghalle obeyed and Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the determined expression on the tanner’s face.

‘You will not kill me,’ said Eu, continuing to climb. ‘And I am weary of this charade. When I return to Oxford and report this matter to the burgesses, none of your ignoble clan will ever-’

There was a hiss and a thud. Eu gasped as the arrow struck him in the chest. He gazed down at it in disbelief, then looked up at Wormynghalle before toppling backwards. There was a splash as he hit the water and sank out of sight. Neither Abergavenny nor Polmorva made any attempt to retrieve the body, while Duraunt began to pray in a frail, weak voice. Meanwhile, Eu’s executioner snatched another missile from her quiver and set it in the bow before anyone could do more than stare in horror.

‘Who will be next?’ she asked, backing away, so she would have plenty of time to notch another arrow, if necessary. ‘Abergavenny?’

The Welshman said nothing, but clutched harder at Duraunt. Bartholomew had assumed it was to keep the old man’s head above the water, but now he realised Duraunt was being used as a shield. Duraunt, already resigned to his fate, looked as if he did not care.

‘Now move,’ said Wormynghalle to Michael. ‘Hurry, or I shall shoot you where you stand, and you will have no chance of life at all.’

‘We have none anyway,’ said Polmorva piteously, as Michael sat, very slowly, on the cistern wall and lifted the first of his large legs over it again. ‘The Archbishop’s parade will go on for hours, and every man, woman and child will be watching it. Even if someone does walk along the towpath, he will not hear us, because of the trumpets and shouting.’

Wormynghalle shrugged. ‘A small chance is better than none.’

‘You said you could do no more in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the cold eyes glittering over the veil. He felt sick when the last piece of the puzzle fell into place: he had finally recognised them. ‘But you are not talking about murder. You are talking about your scholarly work.’

‘Shut up,’ she snapped.

‘Joan,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘You are not Alyce Weasenham. You are Joan Wormynghalle.’

‘You know her?’ asked Michael, astounded, moving his leg across the wall as slowly as he could.

‘It does not matter,’ she said, scowling at Bartholomew.

‘She is King’s Hall’s best scholar,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to draw her into conversation and give them more time, although he was not sure what he could do with it. ‘She will make a name for herself at the greatest universities in the world.’

‘She is a scholar?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘But she is a woman!’

‘Exactly!’ snapped Joan, rounding on the monk and leaving her brother to cover Bartholomew. ‘You think that because I am a woman I am incapable of rational thought? Well, I am not, and some of my mathematical theories have been very well received by my peers.’

‘Then why do this?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘You are as good as a man – better than most – and your prospects are endless. Why jeopardise them?’

‘I am jeopardising nothing. You are the only one who knows my secret, and you will not live to tell it. I shall return to Oxford today, and secure myself a Fellowship at a new College – Balliol this time, I think – and later I shall move to Salerno. As I told you before, as long as I am transient, and do not allow anyone to know me too well, I can continue this life indefinitely.’

‘It is all she has ever wanted,’ said her brother. ‘And I like to see her happy. She tried a term at Oxford last year, to see if she could carry it off, and was so successful that she decided to come here. As you saw for yourself, she is very convincing.’

‘I am confused,’ said Michael. ‘Is this John Wormynghalle of King’s Hall, wearing a kirtle to disguise himself as a woman? Or does Joan Wormynghalle dress like a man?’ He frowned. ‘And perhaps more importantly, have we just deduced that he . . . she is our killer?’

‘I should have guessed you two were related,’ said Bartholomew, angry with himself for not seeing something so transparently obvious. ‘I should not have fallen for your tale of choosing the name of a wealthy Oxford merchant who you thought would never visit Cambridge. You simply changed your Christian name – John for Joan.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Joan coldly. She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘But how did you recognise me? I thought my disguises were good.’

‘Your eyelashes,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And I am a physician, well able to tell the difference.’

Joan sneered at him. ‘Hardly! It took a grab before you were able to work it out.’

‘It could only happen in King’s Hall,’ muttered Michael, poised over the water but not making the final jump. ‘They accept anyone with money, and now it transpires that they even take females.’

‘Norton admired your skill as an archer,’ recalled Bartholomew, thinking of another reason why he should have guessed her identity – there were not many bow-wielding females in Cambridge.

‘I am an excellent shot.’ She turned to Bartholomew, and seemed to soften slightly. ‘I am sorry, Matt. You were kind to me, not revealing my secret to men who would have seen me burned as a witch. But I have no choice but to dispatch you – if I want to continue my career, that is.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Polmorva says you killed Gonerby, which means you also killed Hamecotes and Okehamptone, since they died in an identical manner. I see why you killed Hamecotes: he was your room-mate and, although you said he was not observant, he would have had to be singularly dense not to have noticed he was sharing his chamber with a woman.’

‘He was not as nice about it as you were,’ said Joan. ‘He threatened to tell the Warden.’

‘Why did you take his body to King’s Hall after it had been in the cistern?’ asked Michael.

‘Because Hamecotes was killed with metal teeth,’ replied Bartholomew, when it looked as if Joan would bring an end to the discussion by forcing the monk into the water. It was conjecture, but he hoped that even if he were wrong, she would correct him and delay their deaths until he could think of an argument that might reprieve them. ‘She did not want us to associate Hamecotes’s murder with Gonerby’s, because that would reveal an Oxford connection – and a possible link to her and her brother.’

‘I did not anticipate Dodenho stumbling on him quite so soon,’ she admitted. ‘I thought I had plenty of time to bury him, and planned to let folk assume he had been killed by robbers on the Oxford road. I wash my clothes regularly at the end of the garden, and I have never seen Dodenho using that shed before, despite what I said to you later. It was a shock when he came screeching about his discovery.’

‘You forged letters from Hamecotes, claiming he had gone to Oxford,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had been there for books before, so no one was surprised when he did it again. But I should have seen something sinister in that explanation long ago – especially after Duraunt told me that Merton never parts with its books.’

‘There was no need for you to hide Hamecotes from Tulyet,’ said Michael, trying to help Bartholomew occupy her with questions and observations. ‘We had already established a link between Gonerby and a Cambridge murder: Okehamptone’s. But you did not know that when you dragged a rotting corpse from here to King’s Hall; if you had, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble. So, why did you pick our poor town? Do you intend to set it alight with riots, and ensure our University’s suppression?’

‘Of course not,’ cried Joan, appalled. ‘It is not in my interests to see a school flounder, and I do not care whether the Archbishop builds his new College here or in Oxford. I know you think there is a plot to deprive both universities of his beneficence, but you are mistaken. The disturbances on St Scholastica’s Day had nothing to do with Islip and his money.’

Michael nodded. ‘I imagine you started those because you wanted to kill Gonerby, and a riot provided the perfect diversion.’

‘His business was located near the Swindlestock Tavern, and a little civil disorder was a good way to disguise his murder,’ acknowledged Joan. Her brother made an impatient sound; he was becoming restless and wanted to be away.

‘How did you do it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Pay Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde to start a fight?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘No, it was the Benedictine! Spryngheuse did not imagine him after all. He was you – another of your disguises. It makes sense now. You needed a screen to conceal Gonerby’s murder, and you knew Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde could be goaded into violence.’

‘I did not anticipate it would flare up quite so hotly,’ said Joan. ‘The town was like a tinderbox, and the affray was quickly out of control. I did not intend sixty scholars to die, but it is done and there is no going back. Chesterfelde was no problem, because he was a sanguine sort of man who pushed the whole matter from his mind, but Spryngheuse became obsessed by his Black Monk.’

‘So, you decided to hound him to suicide,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Your brother helped you appear at times when the others would not see you, and you literally haunted him to death.’ He turned to Wormynghalle. ‘And the day he died, it was you who suggested Spryngheuse went for a walk in these gardens, knowing Joan would be waiting for him.’

‘He took little convincing to hang himself,’ said Joan, as if it did not matter. ‘I am good with logic and I told him he had no choice.’

Wormynghalle looked uneasy, and Bartholomew recalled his curious behaviour during the requiem mass, when Eu had declared the spluttering candle to be a portent of doom. Wormynghalle, like many men, was superstitious. Bartholomew wondered whether he could use the tanner’s fears to his advantage.

‘Spryngheuse was an insignificant worm,’ called Polmorva, doing his part to prolong the discussion when Bartholomew and Michael fell silent. ‘Even Duraunt tired of him when he became too big a drain on his poppy juice. It is easy to procure enough for one man’s needs, but not two. Eh, Duraunt?’

The elderly scholar’s eyes remained closed, but his prayers became more fervent. Bartholomew was disappointed in his old teacher – for his lies as much as his dependence on soporifics.

‘Eudo helped, albeit unintentionally, by killing Chesterfelde,’ said Joan. ‘And then, when Spryngheuse learned that a man was attacked while wearing his cloak, it was the last straw. Justice was served with his death – his and Chesterfelde’s – because it was their fault that the chaos escalated. I only wanted Gonerby dead.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he discover you were a woman when you were at Merton?’

‘You are missing a vital piece of information,’ called Polmorva. His eyes showed fear, although his voice was steady. ‘The Wormynghalles marry well when they can – as Eu said, they are ambitious.’

Bartholomew gazed at Joan, recalling the name of the murdered merchant’s wife. ‘You are Joan Gonerby? But it was she who insisted the burgesses came to catch her husband’s killer. Why would you do that, if you were the one who dispatched him in the first place?’

‘To rid me of a man who blocked my election as Mayor, and who damaged my business,’ replied the tanner. ‘And because he interfered with her ambition to study, by threatening to expose her.’

‘I see,’ muttered Abergavenny, still keeping Duraunt between him and the bows. ‘Gonerby refused to buy your skins to make his parchment, did he?’

‘I understand why you accused Matt of Gonerby’s murder,’ said Michael to Wormynghalle. ‘You were trying to confuse me with wild charges and irrational statements of dislike. It was you who said Gonerby was killed with a sword, rather than teeth, too. And you, alone of the merchants, did not want me to look for Gonerby’s killer – you were afraid I might find her.’

‘As he lay wounded, Gonerby heard Joan advising someone – probably her brother – that she was going to Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he passed the information to the men who found him dying. Wormynghalle’s presence was no coincidence, of course: he was there to prevent Gonerby from saying anything incriminating. But why involve Eu and Abergavenny in this hunt?’

‘To lure them to a distant town where they, too, would die,’ said Wormynghalle, pleased with himself. ‘Like Gonerby, they were going to vote against my election as Mayor, and their removal will see me win.’ He raised his bow, and Bartholomew saw he was impatient to use it.

‘So, you killed Gonerby to rid yourself of a tiresome husband and an annoying business rival,’ gabbled Michael. ‘Hamecotes was murdered because he discovered you were a woman, and Spryngheuse because he was unstable. But what about Okehamptone?’

Bartholomew scratched around for the few facts he knew about the scribe’s death. Duraunt’s prayers had petered out, and Polmorva seemed to have abandoned his delaying tactics. Abergavenny was exhausted from keeping himself and Duraunt above water, while Michael was trying not to reveal the depth of his own terror. Bartholomew saw he was on his own in keeping Joan and her brother occupied until he could conceive of a way to best them. He hoped something would occur to him soon, because he sensed he would not keep them gloating over their successes for much longer.

‘It was you who claimed Okehamptone’s fever came from bad water on the journey from Oxford,’ he said to Wormynghalle. ‘It was also your liripipe that hid the fatal wound. You said he had borrowed it, and that you did not want it back – not because it had adorned a corpse, but because it continued to conceal the gash in his throat.’

Wormynghalle addressed his sister. ‘I told you strangling was a better way to kill. They would never have deduced all this if you had used a more conventional method of execution.’

Joan shrugged.

‘It was you who refused to let Rougham see his friend, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘He said the door was answered by someone with fine clothes and a haughty manner, and we assumed it was Polmorva. But that description applies equally to you.’

‘I turned no one away,’ said Polmorva, sounding surprised.

‘Everyone drank heavily the night Okehamptone died,’ continued Bartholomew, wishing Michael would help, because he could not talk and devise an escape at the same time. ‘Of wine you bought.’

‘I should have noticed that,’ said Polmorva feebly. ‘Every time the tanner provided wine, someone died. But why kill Okehamptone?’

‘He overheard us talking the night he arrived in Cambridge,’ replied Joan. ‘He promised to say nothing, but we killed him anyway, just to be sure. While I disguised the wound on his body, my brother gave the meddlesome Rougham a good fright. He fled to Norfolk, I hear.’

‘Is that why you attacked me at Stourbridge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure I did not reveal your secret, even though I gave you my word that I would not?’

‘Men break oaths all the time,’ said Joan. ‘Eu and Abergavenny swore to avenge my husband’s death, but were happy to forget their pledge once he was dead. None of you can be trusted.’

‘These teeth,’ said Bartholomew, removing them from his bag. ‘How did you come by them?’

‘I gave them to my predecessor at Merton,’ said Duraunt, barely audible. ‘He used them for years, but he died recently. Then I kept them in my room, but one of my students stole them.’

‘You,’ said Bartholomew to Joan. ‘You studied in Merton – you took them.’

‘They fascinate me,’ admitted Joan. ‘And I knew no one would guess I had killed my husband if I used the fangs to dispatch him. But they disappeared from my chamber this morning, and I wondered where they had gone. It was you, was it?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Clippesby had managed to do it without being seen.

‘Well, give them back,’ ordered Joan. ‘Be careful when you toss them over. I keep them very sharp.’

Bartholomew pulled back his arm and hurled them into the trees as hard as he could. Joan pursed her lips in annoyance.

‘It does not matter,’ said Wormynghalle. ‘We have completed our business here, and it is time to return to a more civilised city. Now, jump in the water, monk.’

Michael began to slide with infinite slowness into the cistern. His face was as white as snow, but he refused to submit to the indignity of begging for his life. When he had gone, Bartholomew looked from Joan to her brother in despair. He suspected he could overpower the tanner, who was overly confident, but Joan was a different proposition. She had approached the problem of loose ends with the same precision she applied to her studies, and would never risk her safety by exercising mercy.

‘Eudo,’ he blurted, desperately trying to think of some way to delay the inevitable. ‘You told him what to write in his proclamation. You chose carefully, so something in it would be certain to incite unrest.’

Joan gave a tight smile. ‘I only want the beadles and the Sheriff distracted until we have left. We probably do not need a diversion with the Visitation, but there is no point in being careless.’

‘Joan,’ Bartholomew began. ‘I-’

‘No more talk,’ said Wormynghalle, pulling back his arm as he aimed his arrow.

Bartholomew willed himself to keep his eyes open and fixed on the man who would kill him. Neither Wormynghalle nor Joan showed remorse or distaste for what they were about to do, and he supposed it was such coldblooded ruthlessness that had allowed their family to prosper so abruptly.

‘Spryngheuse’s soul will never let you rest,’ he shouted, resorting to desperate tactics. ‘He is there, in the trees, watching you sell your soul to the Devil.’

Joan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Wormynghalle paled, and his bow wavered. Then there was a loud crack, and he toppled backwards. Without waiting to see how or why, Bartholomew launched himself at Joan, wrenching the weapon from her hands while she watched her brother stagger. She saw instantly that Bartholomew would overpower her with his superior strength, so she abandoned her attempts to retrieve the bow, and grabbed a knife from her belt. She stabbed wildly, and the physician leapt away. With a gasp of horror, he lost his balance and toppled into the cistern, bowling over Michael, who was halfway out.

For a moment, Bartholomew’s eyes and ears were full of water. Then he surfaced, gagging and choking. He looked around, anticipating that the lid would be slammed down and he and the others would drown. The level of water was now so high that the heads of anyone inside would be forced under as soon as it dropped, and he braced himself for a final ducking as Joan completed her work. But the hatch remained open, and he was aware of someone thrusting him roughly out of the way to reach the rectangle of light that represented air and life. It was Polmorva, kicking and punching others in his determination to escape.

As Polmorva hauled himself out, Bartholomew expected him to be shot, but nothing happened, so he grabbed Michael, who was floundering nearby, and shoved him to where he could reach the hatch. The monk was strong, despite his lard, and his powerful arms propelled him upward as though he were on fire. Bartholomew saw him glance around quickly before leaning into the cistern to help the others. Duraunt went first, followed by Abergavenny, and Bartholomew last.

Of Joan, there was no sign, and Polmorva had also gone. While Michael hunted for them among the trees, Bartholomew knelt next to Duraunt, who was shivering in a crumpled heap on the ground.

‘I recognised her,’ the old man said in a whisper. ‘As soon as she started talking about her crimes, I recognised her as my brilliant young student who disappeared after a term. She looked different here – her hair is longer and darker. But it was she who stole the teeth from me.’

‘Damn those things!’ said Bartholomew. ‘They have caused problems from the moment they were made.’

‘My predecessor had twenty years of pleasure from them,’ objected Duraunt. ‘Do not be so quick to condemn new ideas, Matthew. One day, many ancients may own devices like those, to make their final years more enjoyable.’

‘Never,’ vowed Bartholomew. ‘No one will want foreign objects in his mouth while he eats.’

‘It is a case of what you are used to,’ said Duraunt. ‘Your fat friend will not decline a set when he wears out his own and he wants to continue to devour good red meat.’

‘What happened to the tanner?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting they could argue all day and not agree. He was angry with Duraunt for keeping something that should have been destroyed, and for lying to him about the poppy juice. He felt betrayed, but told himself that Duraunt was just a man, not a saint, and that men had human failings.

‘There,’ said Abergavenny, pointing.

Bartholomew scrambled towards him, but could see Wormynghalle was dead. There was a graze on the side of his head, where something had struck his temple. It was not a fatal wound, though: the tanner had died because the chain of his sheep’s-head pendant had caught on the cistern’s pulley and was tight around his neck. He had been stunned, then had hung unconscious while his jewellery deprived him of air. Bartholomew recalled the sharp crack before he had fallen, and glanced around uneasily, wondering whether his words about Spryngheuse’s soul had been prophetic. He was not normally given to superstition, but whatever had happened to Wormynghalle had been uncannily timed. He looked up as someone knelt next to him. It was Clippesby, with Michael looming behind him.

‘You threw me the teeth as I watched what was happening from the trees,’ Clippesby explained. ‘I knew exactly what you wanted me to do. Unfortunately, I missed Joan and hit her brother instead. You probably did not intend me to throw them quite so hard, and I am sorry I killed him.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Michael fervently. He clapped Clippesby on the shoulder. ‘You and Matt saved us with your quick thinking.’

‘Not me,’ said Bartholomew, realising he should have guessed Clippesby was somewhere close by, doing what he did best as he listened to a conversation undetected.

‘Do not be modest,’ said Clippesby. ‘I would not have known what to do without your prompt. I was beginning to think I might have to watch you die, because I have no idea how to confront people with loaded weapons. Such folk are beyond my understanding.’

‘Well, they are not beyond mine,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And I have a feeling Joan is not finished with us yet. She will not be pleased that you killed her brother, and she knows her life as a scholar is over now. I think she will do something dreadful, to ensure she leaves academia with a flourish.’

‘What can she do?’ asked Abergavenny reasonably. ‘If she has any sense, she will jump on one of her brother’s horses and leave while she can.’

‘Polmorva took them all,’ said Clippesby. ‘I saw him tearing along Merton Lane as if the hounds of Hell were after him. He is not a brave man, and his only thoughts were for his own safety once he was free. But it means Joan cannot go anywhere, because she has no transport.’

‘Why did Polmorva run?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He is not in league with Wormynghalle, is he?’

‘Probably because he saw at first hand the trouble murders can bring,’ replied Duraunt enigmatically.

Michael frowned. ‘What are you saying? That he has it in mind to commit one of his own?’

‘I suspect he has been put off by the chaos they cause,’ replied Duraunt, still annoyingly obtuse. He relented when he saw Michael’s stern expression, realising the time for prevarication was over. ‘You are not the only one with whom he has a feud, Matthew. I am fairly sure he had planned to put an end to the Master of Queen’s, so he could be elected in his place.’

‘Is that why you brought him here?’ asked Michael. ‘Not because you had developed a friendship with the man, but because you were hoping to prevent a crime?’

‘It worked,’ said Duraunt with a tired smile. ‘I think he will be so grateful to reach home unscathed after this escapade that he will count his blessings, and think of less permanent ways to rid himself of rivals.’

‘I do not think Joan will run away, though,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with her than about a man he felt was beneath his contempt. ‘Scholarship was her life, and she will never be accepted into a College now. She has nothing left to live for.’

‘What do you think she will do?’ asked Michael anxiously.

‘She will want revenge, and she knows how to get it. She said she did not want the universities suppressed, because she wanted to enrol in them. But she probably thinks that if she cannot study, then others should not have that privilege, either.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Duraunt sadly. ‘That is exactly what my ambitious student would think. She will attack Cambridge – and she will succeed. Look what she did in Oxford.’

‘The Visitation!’ Michael cried in horror. ‘I was right all along. She plans to spoil the Visitation!’

‘She has the teeth, too,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘She grabbed them as she fled, and I was too far away to do anything about it.’

‘We must stop her,’ said Michael, seizing Bartholomew’s sleeve. The physician hesitated, worried about Duraunt’s pale face and sodden clothes.

‘Go, Matthew,’ said Duraunt weakly. ‘You can visit me later, when you have her safely under lock and key.’

‘I will stay with you,’ said Clippesby, slipping a hand under Duraunt’s arm to help him to his feet. ‘I deplore violence, and want no more of it. It serves me right for spending so much time with people today – visiting King’s Hall to look for the teeth, then coming here. Animals are not so vicious.’

‘Wolf,’ said Bartholomew, before following Michael. ‘What did you mean when you insisted the killer was a wolf? It was Joan, and she is not wolf-like in the slightest.’

‘Joan is not heavy enough to have flattened us both last night: that was her brother,’ replied Clippesby. He grimaced. ‘She would have been far more efficient, so we are lucky she asked him to do it, and did not come herself. I heard them discussing it this morning, after I left your room and went to meet the Merton Hall geese. She was furious when he told her he had failed.’

‘So why did you say the killer was “the wolf ”?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘Because the man wears a locket around his neck in the shape of a wolf’s head. I saw it when he attacked Rougham, and again last night. It fell out of his clothes as he struggled.’

‘That is not a wolf,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘It is a ram. He is a tanner, and a ram’s head is supposed to represent his trade of steeping sheepskins, to make leather.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Clippesby carelessly. ‘It looked like a wolf to me.’

Michael raced towards the High Street as fast as his fat legs could carry him, while Bartholomew strode at his side. They crossed the Great Bridge, where a solitary guard was on duty; his colleagues had been dispatched to deal with the crowds massing for the Visitation.

‘Where will she go, Matt?’ gasped Michael. His wet clothes did not make running easy, because his woollen habit was heavy when waterlogged. He stopped to catch his breath, clinging to the physician like a drowning man. ‘I do not understand her, so I cannot predict what she might do. Do you think she might attack Islip tonight, thinking we will lower our guard?’

‘There are crowds to hide among today. If she is going to act, then it will be now.’

The folk who had gathered to catch a glimpse of the Archbishop stretched as far back along the High Street as St Michael’s Church. Bartholomew could tell from the sound of trumpets that the ecclesiastical procession had reached St Mary the Great, where Islip was expected to stop for a few moments, and allow people to view him.

Michael began to shove his way through the crowd, earning hostile glowers as he went. His Benedictine habit protected him from retaliation, although Bartholomew was repaid with one or two hard shoves. The physician did not dare look around, afraid that even a glance might initiate the kind of skirmish that had so damaged Oxford. Every man, woman and child carried a knife for general use, and any fight that broke out would almost certainly end in deaths and ugly injuries.

‘Slow down, Brother,’ he hissed, as he followed the monk’s flailing elbows. ‘You will start a riot without Joan’s help, if you are not careful.’

‘We are almost there,’ muttered Michael. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. Pax vobiscum.’ He sketched a blessing at the furious woman he had jostled and gave her one of his best smiles. She relented, although her husband did not, and Bartholomew saw a dagger start to emerge from its sheath. He took a coin from his scrip, hoping it would appease him. It fell to the ground, and the fellow’s attention was immediately taken with trying to retrieve it from among the churning feet.

‘Here we are,’ said Michael in relief. ‘St Mary the Great. And there is the Archbishop being greeted formally by Tynkell.’

Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and saw the glorious white robes of the Archbishop, who stood next to the equally splendid Chancellor in his ceremonial red. He saw Islip duck to Tynkell’s left, presumably to stand upwind of him. They were flanked by town dignitaries on one side, and the University’s most senior Fellows on the other. Surrounding them was a heaving throng of dark-robed students and brightly clad townsmen. It was an uneasy combination, and Bartholomew’s only consolation was that they were so tightly crammed together, there was not much room for swinging punches.

‘There is Lee,’ he said urgently, pointing to one side. ‘Rougham’s student. And he is far more interested in the silversmith’s apprentices than in Islip.’

‘Stop him, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘A fracas is just what Joan is waiting for. She will kill the Archbishop while everyone’s attention is on the brawl, just as she has done before. I will warn Islip.’

‘There she is!’ cried Bartholomew. ‘She is talking to Lee!’ He watched helplessly as Lee started in surprise, then regarded the silversmith’s lads appraisingly. ‘She is encouraging him to argue, just as she induced Spryngheuse and Chesterfelde to quarrel in Oxford.’

‘Go and grab Lee,’ ordered Michael. ‘I will get her. Damn it! I cannot see the woman! Where did she go?’

‘Next to Father William,’ said Bartholomew, trying to move towards his quarry but finding his path blocked by the sheer crush of people. ‘Now she is pointing at the Dominicans. She knows what she is doing, Brother: she is aware of how much he hates them.’

‘He is heading towards them,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘And his face is like thunder. She has made up some tale to get him aroused. Do something, Matt!’

‘I cannot stop him and Lee,’ cried Bartholomew, appalled. ‘She is making sure there are too many skirmishes for us to control.’

Michael used every ounce of his strength to forge a way through the hordes, smiling benignly and informing people that he was the Senior Proctor and that he needed to reach the front. He sketched benedictions in all directions in the hope of mollifying those he shoved and trod on, but he was leaving a trail of anger behind him nonetheless. Bartholomew heard a merchant telling Paxtone that the monk was a godless oaf, at the same time that William reached the Dominicans and began to hold forth. Meanwhile, Lee and the silversmith’s apprentices were already embroiled in a push-and-shove that looked set to spill over into something violent. Bartholomew saw a flash of steel in Lee’s hand.

‘It is too late!’ he shouted. ‘She has set her fires and we can do nothing to stop her.’

Michael reached Joan, and one of his meaty hands closed around her shoulder. Bartholomew looked behind him, and saw the Dominicans starting to yell back at William, while Lee’s dagger was in his hand and he was waving it at a loutish looking lad who carried a cudgel.

‘Help!’ screamed Joan. ‘I am a Cambridge wife, and I am being ravaged by a scholar! Help me!’

Several townsfolk immediately went to her assistance, and Bartholomew saw the monk quickly surrounded by men who looked ready to show impudent scholars what happened to those who assaulted their women, monastic habits notwithstanding. Meanwhile, one of the Dominicans pushed William hard in the chest, and the friar responded by lashing out with his fist. Michaelhouse’s students surged forward to support the Franciscan, while Lee and the others were suddenly engaged in a furious battle. Small fights were beginning to break out elsewhere, too, and Bartholomew watched the unfolding chaos with a sense of helpless despair, knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent a massacre.

‘LET US PRAY.’

The voice that cut across the sounds of fighting was so loud and compelling that it stopped a good many brawlers in their tracks. Lee jumped in alarm and the knife dropped from his hand, while the Dominicans and William were stunned into immobility by the words that were such a large part of their lives. Several friars grinned sheepishly at the Michaelhouse students as they placed their hands together in front of them.

‘I said, LET US PRAY!’ boomed Islip again, even more thunderously.

The apprentices looked at each other in bemusement, but obediently lowered their weapons. One or two even knelt, while the students, conditioned by the routine of their daily offices, formed tidy lines and stood with bowed heads. Bartholomew was astounded to see that everywhere people were assuming attitudes of prayer, either standing devoutly or dropping to their knees. The silence was absolute, and all signs of hostility gone, like blossom in a spring gale.

‘Help me!’ cried Joan in desperation, when she saw her plan about to be thwarted.

The townsmen who had come to her rescue edged away uncomfortably as she shattered the reverent stillness. Michael released his grip and folded his arms, smiling in satisfaction.

‘Rape!’ shrieked Joan in final desperation, appealing to her rescuers. ‘He tried to-’

‘Hush!’ hissed Lee angrily. ‘The Archbishop is praying.’

A communal growl of agreement accompanied his words, as the crowd indicated that they wanted her to shut up until the great man had finished.

Tulyet approached, and spoke softly in her ear. ‘It is over, Joan Gonerby. My men and Michael’s beadles are all around you. You cannot escape.’

‘Help!’ yelled Joan, not one to give up easily, although her face was frightened. Her furious howl drowned Islip’s next words, and those around her began to complain, outraged that she should dare to screech over the most venerable churchman in the land.

‘Be still, woman!’ snapped William. ‘I cannot hear what he is saying.’

Joan, seeing she had lost, ducked away from Michael, and people hastily moved out of her way, not wanting to be associated with someone who made a racket during an Archbishop’s devotions. Sheriff and Senior Proctor followed. Bartholomew winced when Tulyet tripped her from behind and Michael, to make sure she did not escape again, sat on her. He hurried forward, genuinely afraid she would be crushed to death. Two of Tulyet’s sergeants took her arms, and he saw she was limp and unresisting, squashed in spirit, as well as in body, as they hauled her away.

‘I said “Peace be with you”,’ said the Archbishop, in response to William’s demand that he repeat himself. Bartholomew glanced at Islip, and saw the faintest of smiles touching his lips as he regarded the confused crowd. ‘The usual response is for you all to say that it is also with me.’

‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ said William, bowing absurdly deeply. ‘You spoke English, and I only ever make such responses in Latin. But I shall make an exception for you.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said Islip, now unable to suppress the grin. He raised his hands and appealed to the crowd. ‘Well come on, then.’

There was a disorganised rumble of voices.

‘No,’ said Islip patiently. ‘You all speak together. Loudly and clearly, so I can hear you.’

‘And also with you,’ bawled William, all on his own.

‘Well, that is a start, I suppose,’ said Islip. ‘Now how about the rest of you?’

Scholars, clerics and townsmen alike exchanged bewildered glances, but did as they were told. Then they did it a second and a third time, until Islip was satisfied. By this time, the beadles had interposed themselves between Lee and his adversaries, and the antagonism between Dominicans and Michaelhouse had been forgotten in the unprecedented phenomenon of making priestly responses to an Archbishop in English. The townsfolk were delighted, and began to shout their appreciation. The scholars joined in, and it was not long before the atmosphere had changed from unease to jubilation.

‘That was clever,’ said Michael admiringly. ‘I heard Islip is a genius, and now I see why he has that reputation. But let us see to Joan. I want her locked up before she tries any more mischief.’

They edged through the cheering crowd until they reached the soldiers who had arrested her. Bartholomew immediately sensed something was wrong. He started to run towards them, but stopped abruptly when he saw Tulyet. The Sheriff’s hands were sticky with blood.

‘Help her, Matt,’ he said.

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling to confirm what he already knew just by looking. ‘She is already dead.’

‘What happened?’ asked Michael.

‘Those damned teeth,’ said Tulyet unsteadily. ‘She used them to cut her own throat.’