The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 5

Just when Bartholomew thought his life was about to end and that Eudo was going to dash out his brains and kick his body into the cistern, where no one would find it until Merton Hall’s residents started to sicken from drinking bad water, Eudo’s smile became forced. Then it faded altogether. The tenant put his hand to his chest, and when he pulled it away, there was blood on his fingers.

‘Someone is shooting at us,’ cried Boltone in alarm. He released Bartholomew, who dropped to the ground, certain that if someone was loosing arrows, then it would be no friend of his. The bailiff darted forward and tugged the quarrel from Eudo’s chest, making his friend shriek in pain. ‘I told you to go back to work and not answer questions, and now look what has happened. You should have known the Proctor would not come here alone. We are doomed!’

‘Not yet,’ said Eudo, grimacing at the redness staining his palm. ‘We will finish the physician, hunt out this archer, and-’ Another arrow hissed into the ground at his feet, making him jump like the dancing bear Bartholomew had watched in the Market Square. ‘But then again, perhaps not.’

Without further ado, he raced away. Startled by his abrupt flight, Boltone tore after him, howling for him to stop, but Eudo had no intention of waiting to be shot, and within moments both men were lost from sight. Bartholomew crawled towards the spent missile, his thoughts whirling in confusion. It was tiny, although still large enough to have pierced Eudo’s skin. He scanned the trees that lay across the Bin Brook, and sure enough, there was Dickon’s tawny head poking over the wall. The boy was wearing a grin that almost split his face in half.

‘Splat!’ shouted Dickon in delight. ‘I kill him.’

Bartholomew climbed unsteadily to his feet, edging towards the cistern, half his mind on the fact that Michael had gone ominously quiet, and half on the fact that Dickon might have enjoyed his live target practice so much he would try it again.

‘Put the bow down,’ he ordered sternly. ‘Your father forbade you to shoot at people. He will be angry when he learns what you have done.’

He moved closer to the well and glanced inside it. Michael was not there. Then he saw a scrap of the monk’s habit floating in one corner, and his stomach lurched in horror.

‘Dickon!’ he yelled, all thoughts of his own safety gone. ‘Call your father! Hurry! Go now!’

‘Pow! I kill him dead!’ yelled Dickon, but obligingly disappeared from the wall. Bartholomew only hoped he would not encounter something more interesting before he summoned assistance – and that Tulyet would take the boy seriously and not put his story down to childish imagination.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew himself was faced with an agonising decision. If he jumped inside the cistern, he would not be able to climb out unaided – and if Dickon did not manage to raise the alarm, he would eventually drown. But Michael was already unconscious, and would die for certain if he took the time to fetch help himself. He glanced at the pulley, wondering whether he could use it to haul them both to safety, but Eudo had dismantled it to the point where it was useless. There was only one thing to do if he was to save Michael.

Taking a deep breath, he sat on the wall and launched himself forward. The water was agonisingly cold, and he felt himself descend for some time before he was able to kick his way to the surface. He blinked algae from his eyes and looked for the floating material he had seen in one corner. It was not there: Michael had sunk.

Trying to quell his alarm, Bartholomew dived. The water was cloudy and no sunlight penetrated the pool, which meant it was impossible to see. He flailed around in increasingly desperate circles, searching for anything grabbable. The tips of his fingers encountered something waving near the side of the pit, and he moved towards it, his lungs almost ready to burst. He located an arm and seized it, kicking towards the surface and surprised at how heavy Michael had become.

He dropped his prize in horror: the face that emerged was not the monk’s, nor was it anyone he could save. Whoever else was in the well was long past earthly help, and there was a deep, gashing wound in the throat that looked as if someone had hacked it with stunning ferocity. Bartholomew had a fleeting image of a moss-coloured liripipe and a youngish face before he released the corpse and dived again, concentrating on the area where he had seen Michael’s habit.

He felt something bulky that moved when he touched it, and struck out for the surface yet again, dragging the body with him and praying it was Michael and not another cadaver, because time was running out. He was relieved when he recognised the thin, brown hair and beefy features, and pressed his ear against his friend’s chest. A faint hammering told him the monk was alive. He opened Michael’s mouth and breathed hard into it, as he had been taught to do by his Arab master in Paris. Immediately, Michael gagged. His eyes fluttered open and he began to flail, strong arms made even more powerful by panic.

‘Keep still,’ Bartholomew ordered, ducking to avoid being hit. Michael was weighty, even when buoyed up by water, and his struggles would make keeping him afloat difficult. ‘Or you will have us both under.’

‘I cannot swim!’ shrieked Michael, grabbing him around the throat.

Bartholomew went under, desperately trying to dislodge the monk’s vicelike grip. They both started to sink, and one of Michael’s knees struck him under the chin. He kicked his way free and surfaced some distance away. This time, he approached the monk from behind and hauled him up backwards, so he would not be able to drag them down a second time. Michael struggled frantically, and Bartholomew was hard-pressed to maintain his hold.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, when he could speak without water slopping into his mouth. ‘You are not going to drown. I have you. But you must trust me. Relax.’

‘Relax?’ screeched Michael. ‘What an inane thing to say to a drowning man!’

‘Well, try,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘And stop making so much noise or you will have Eudo and Boltone back. We are sitting ducks inside this thing.’ He coughed, and the rhythm of his treading water was momentarily broken.

‘We are sinking!’ howled Michael, at once embarking on a new bout of struggles. ‘Water is going up my nose. I cannot breathe!’

‘Then stop splashing and making waves,’ gasped Bartholomew. ‘I will not let you go, I promise.’

Michael went rigid, every muscle in his body straining with the effort of keeping still. His breath came in short, shallow hisses, and he screwed his eyes tightly closed, so he would not be able to see the slick green walls and the rectangle of sky above him. Bartholomew admired his self-control, not sure he could have complied so readily, if the situation had been reversed.

‘No,’ whispered Michael after a few moments. ‘This will not work. You are not strong enough to keep us both afloat. Let me go.’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘As soon as I release you, you will grab me and we will drown together.’ He paddled towards one of the walls, hoping to find a handhold that Michael could take, and ease some of the weight. There was nothing.

Michael retched as he scrabbled at the stones, trying in vain to hold himself up. ‘My feet are nowhere near the bottom,’ he squeaked. ‘And the sides are as slippery and as smooth as ice.’

‘Help is on its way,’ said Bartholomew, to calm him. ‘We do not have long to wait.’

Michael twisted around to look at him. ‘Who? Not Eudo and Boltone. They want us dead.’

‘Dickon. He is fetching his father as we speak.’

Michael was appalled. ‘Dickon? But he would love to see me perish. Indeed, I am surprised he is not here to watch. I suppose the garden wall is too high for him to scale.’

Bartholomew said nothing. His legs were already beginning to ache from the effort of swimming, and he dared not ease his hold around the monk’s neck, for the instant he did so Michael would panic again.

‘Drowned in a latrine pit!’ muttered Michael, making a valiant attempt to control his hysteria by talking. ‘I can just imagine what my adversaries at the University will make of that.’

‘This is not a latrine pit,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of the other corpse that lurked under the murky surface, but deciding it was not a good time to mention it. In an attempt to ensure it did not slip out inadvertently, he changed the subject, then winced when he ended up saying something equally inappropriate. ‘If Dickon neglects to call his father, your enemies will never know what happened to you anyway. You will just fail to return home tonight, and that will be that.’

‘A mystery,’ said Michael weakly, spitting and fixing one meaty hand around Bartholomew’s arm. It was a grip of tremendous strength, and Bartholomew felt his own begin to slacken. He struggled to maintain it. ‘I have always hated water. Swim harder, Matt – we are sinking again.’

‘You are heavy,’ said Bartholomew breathlessly, aware that already his burning muscles were not obeying him as they should. ‘Try to float.’

‘A man of my girth does not float,’ stated Michael, with a trace of his habitual hauteur. He was silent for a moment. ‘What if help does not come?’

‘It will,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound confident, and deciding not to point out that a three-year-old child could hardly be expected to understand the importance of what he had been asked to do. Dickon’s attention span was short and, even if he did go directly to his father and tell him the improbable story that the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were in his neighbour’s cistern, there was a good chance that Tulyet would not believe him.

‘Save yourself,’ said Michael, after what felt like an age. ‘Let me go and climb out. You are fit and strong. You will make it. Then come back for me later, being sure to present my corpse in its best light for mourners. All I ask is that you never tell anyone what really happened.’

‘What did happen?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at the sky, and strained his ears, but could hear or see nothing to indicate rescue was on its way. Michael slipped a little, and gagged as water slapped into his mouth. Bartholomew made a monumental effort to heave him up, and was horrified when he found he was barely able to do it. Without relinquishing his hold, he decided to see if they would fare better by swimming, than treading water. He leaned backwards and began to move. Michael screeched in horror.

‘Do not paddle away from the walls! The water is deeper in the middle than at the sides.’

Bartholomew coughed. ‘It makes no difference when we cannot touch the bottom at either place. I think I can keep going longer this way than by staying still.’

‘But I do not like it!’ protested Michael. ‘Water is going in my ears.’

‘Well, you will just have to put up with it,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what happened with Eudo and Boltone.’

‘They wanted to kill us. And it was your fault. I tried to stop you from interrogating Eudo, because I could see the way it was going to end. He grabbed that hammer as soon as you came close to guessing what had happened to Chesterfelde, and I knew we would be hard pressed to defeat him once he was armed. You should have followed my lead, and …Matt, we are going under!’

Bartholomew struggled to lift him. Time was ticking past, and he began to accept that help was not coming after all. The sun started to set, sending orange-red rays across the cistern wall, and he saw it would soon be night. He could not stay afloat much longer, and then he and Michael would be finished. Michael had been right: it was an ignominious way to die, and not one he would have chosen, especially given that he had spent most of his professional life warning people about the dangers of water – the diseases it harboured and the risks associated with swimming. He thought about the body he had found, hoping to distract himself from the agonising ache in his limbs. Had Eudo and Boltone put it there, after they had cut its throat? Or was there another killer?

‘You mean in here with us?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is it?’

With a shock, Bartholomew realised he must have spoken aloud. ‘I did not recognise him,’ he said, bracing himself for the panicky flailing he was sure was about to begin.

‘Another of Eudo and Boltone’s victims?’ Michael showed admirable self-restraint, however, and, although the pincer-like grip on Bartholomew’s arm increased, he held himself in check. ‘It must have been. They are using this cistern as their personal charnel house.’

Bartholomew barely heard him, although he sensed the monk was talking; the voice was a buzz in the back of his consciousness. Then, just when he thought he was truly doomed and could continue paddling no longer, a silhouette appeared in the rectangle of darkening sky above.

‘God’s blood!’ breathed Tulyet. Dickon stood behind him, still gripping his tiny bow. ‘What are you two doing down there?’

Tulyet was a decisive, resourceful man, and it was not long before he had organised the merchants and scholars from Merton Hall to form a rescue team. With the help of a rope, they hauled first Michael, then Bartholomew to safety. Duraunt, too elderly and frail to assist with the physical labour, dropped to his knees and prayed for their well-being, while the three merchants, Spryngheuse and Polmorva managed the heavy work.

By the time Bartholomew and Michael were out of the cistern and on to solid ground again, they were covered in the green ooze that coated the walls. It stank foully, and Polmorva made a point of telling them so, adding as an aside to Bartholomew that only a fool would willingly leap into such a place, no matter how honourable his intentions. He jumped away in alarm when the physician rounded on him with a murderous expression in his eyes.

‘There is a bucket,’ said Tulyet, thrusting a leather pail at Polmorva with one hand, while he held Bartholomew back with the other. ‘Bring water from the river to wash Michael’s face. Matt, this is no time for fighting. See to your friend.’

Giving Polmorva one last, furious glower, Bartholomew went to where Michael, exhausted by his ordeal, lay with his eyes closed and an unnatural pallor to his face. The physician was alarmed, seeing the incident had had a more serious effect on him than he had appreciated, and began to consider the unpleasant prospect of a seizure. When Polmorva handed him the bucket, he carefully dribbled water over Michael’s cheeks, rubbing away the more stubborn marks with his hand. Wordlessly, he shoved the pail back at Polmorva, indicating he was to fill it a second time. Polmorva obliged, but when he returned, he up-ended the pail over Michael himself. The monk shot upright, spluttering and gagging, while Bartholomew launched himself at Polmorva. This time, Tulyet could not stop him, and he managed to land two solid punches before Polmorva sat down hard on the ground with his legs splayed in front of him. It was a satisfying moment, and Bartholomew was surprised at the depth of feeling that had festered for so many years.

‘Enough, Matthew,’ said Duraunt, standing between them. Intervention was no longer necessary, though, because Bartholomew’s anger had dissipated the moment Polmorva had toppled backwards in an inelegant sprawl. ‘He meant no harm.’

‘I was trying to help,’ said Polmorva resentfully, raising one hand to his split lip. ‘And I did. Your friend is sitting up now, having regained his wits. You could have dabbed delicately all night and not had the same effect.’

‘I did not want him to leap up like that,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘Sudden shocks are bad for the heart after this kind of event, especially in the obese. You might have killed him.’

‘Well, I did not,’ said Polmorva, gesturing to where Michael was being helped to his feet by the three merchants. They struggled under his immense weight, and at one point he managed to haul all three down on top of him. Tulyet stepped in and offered to show them the method he employed for raising pregnant mares. ‘He is perfectly all right.’

‘You lied to us, Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the strain of the last few hours was depriving him of his self-control. ‘First, you said you had all slept deeply the night Chesterfelde died, and only later admitted that you had enjoyed some claret. But we have since learned that you were all so intoxicated that the sounds of your merriment could be heard on the far side of the river.’

‘I was not inebriated,’ said Polmorva indignantly.

‘Not you, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, deliberately not looking at Spryngheuse. ‘But everyone else was. You included.’ He rounded on Duraunt.

The elderly Warden was taken aback. ‘We had a sip of wine, but we were certainly not drunk!’

Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him. Tulyet was not a man given to exaggeration, but he claimed to have heard the revelry, and Bartholomew knew they were unlikely to have made such a racket had they been sober. So, was Duraunt lying about the amount he had imbibed, and if so, why? To protect his own reputation, or because he did not want Oxford men accused of murder in a rival University town? Meanwhile, Spryngheuse refused to meet his eyes. Was it because he had overstated the extent of their sottishness, or was he was afraid his tale-telling would annoy his colleagues? Or was he simply appalled by the blunt interrogation, since Michael had promised discretion?

‘Do not try to pit your meagre wits against killers, Bartholomew,’ said Polmorva disdainfully, still fingering his damaged mouth. ‘Stay with what you know best – examining urine and lancing boils – and leave the investigation of crime to those who know what they are doing.’

‘This bitterness between you two must stop,’ said Duraunt, stepping forward to take their hands in his own. ‘The affair with the Benedictines and the metal teeth is long forgotten, and it is time you ended this ridiculous feud.’

‘I have not forgotten it,’ said Polmorva frostily. ‘He accused me of bringing about a death.’

‘But you did bring about a death,’ argued Bartholomew, equally cold. ‘You knew the teeth were making men ill, but you continued to rent them to the greedy and gullible. Had you stopped when I asked, none of those monks would been laid low and the sub-prior would not have died from a surfeit of beef.’

‘He ate that of his own free will. Do not blame me for what he did to himself.’

‘But you provided him with the means to do it. You knew what was likely to happen, and you should accept some responsibility for the tragedy.’

‘The sub-prior was a grown man; he made his own decision.’ Polmorva’s face was dark and dangerous. ‘But there is a question that has been nagging at me for years, and I would like an honest answer: did you steal my fangs after he died? They disappeared, and I was deprived of a valuable source of income. You took them once before – you no doubt recall how I found them on the ground outside your window. Did you make off with them a second time?’

‘Of course he did not,’ said Duraunt firmly. ‘He could not have done.’

‘You seem very sure of that,’ said Polmorva suspiciously.

‘I am – because I took them,’ said Duraunt. Both men gaped at him. ‘Matthew was right: they were a danger to incautious old men. But you were also right: borrowing them conferred great pleasure. So, seeing the conundrum was insoluble, I decided it would be best if they simply ceased to exist. I carried them to the nearest forge, and watched the blacksmith melt them into nothing.’

Polmorva was astounded. ‘Why did you not tell me this at the time? I have believed Bartholomew to be a thief for nigh on two decades.’

‘Because I was afraid of your temper. But all this happened a long time ago, and it is high time it was set right. Clasp each other’s hands, and consign your differences to the past.’

‘No,’ said Polmorva, dragging his arm away. ‘I have endured too many insults, and I am no hypocrite, smiling falsely at men I hate. But tend your fat friend, physician. He is reeling like a drunkard. Perhaps that is the reason he toppled inside the cistern, and this claim about bowmen and hammers is the invention of an intoxicated mind.’

Bartholomew did not dignify him with an answer. He freed his hand from Duraunt, sorry to see the sadness on the old man’s face. Duraunt was right: to continue a youthful argument for twenty years was foolish, but even setting eyes on Polmorva reminded Bartholomew of how much he had despised the fellow and his selfish schemes, and he discovered he was equally unforgiving. The strength of the emotion surprised him; he had not known he was the kind to bear grudges.

‘Eudo?’ muttered Michael, glancing around as if he imagined the tenant might still be lurking. He clutched Eu for support, making the man gasp and sway under the weight. Wormynghalle chuckled as Eu’s legs began to buckle, and it was left to Abergavenny to try to relieve his beleaguered colleague. ‘And that slippery Boltone? Where did they go?’

‘Well away from this town, if they know what is good for them,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Your beadles will be after their blood for what they did to you, while my soldiers do not take kindly to men being left to drown in cisterns, either – not even scholars.’

‘That is comforting,’ said Michael. He reached out and seized the sniggering Wormynghalle when he found Eu unequal to the task of supporting him, snagging the ugly sheep’s head pendant as he did so. The amusement disappeared from the tanner’s face as he tried to prise it free.

‘I kill him,’ said Dickon, brandishing his bow in happy satisfaction.

‘You took a long time to do what I asked,’ said Bartholomew, somewhat ungraciously, since the boy had saved his life.

‘That was not his fault,’ said Tulyet defensively. ‘He came long before dusk to tell me what he had seen, but I did not believe him. Only the fact that he refused to sleep until we had visited the cistern together brought me here.’ He raised his hands. ‘You must admit it sounds unlikely – you two playing a game with Eudo, which culminated in a leap down the well.’

‘I kill him,’ repeated Dickon with unseemly relish, leaving Bartholomew in no doubt as to what he considered the highlight of the whole affair.

‘Did he?’ asked Tulyet in a low voice. He had ordered lamps brought from the hall, and had been inspecting the ground while Michael recovered. ‘Only there is a lot of blood here.’

‘That is probably Chesterfelde’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And perhaps some of it belongs to whoever else is in the pit.’

‘The man you did not recognise,’ mused Tulyet. ‘How long has the body been down there, do you think? A day? A week? A year?’

‘Not a day and not a year,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Somewhere in between.’

‘Can you not be more specific?’ asked Michael, releasing the merchants and standing unaided at last. They backed away fast, to make sure they were not manhandled a second time. ‘People often go missing, and I do not want to trawl through a year’s reports to identify him. Neither will Dick.’

‘Pull him out, and I will try to narrow it down,’ offered Bartholomew. ‘I only glimpsed him for a moment, but he may yield more information after a proper examination.’

‘I suppose I can arrange for the well to be drained,’ said Tulyet unenthusiastically. ‘Not tomorrow – I am too busy with preparations for the Visitation – but perhaps the day after.’

‘I kill him,’ insisted Dickon, determined to have their attention and stamping his small foot to get it. ‘He kill one man, so I kill him. Like my father.’

Bartholomew frowned, wondering whether from the vantage point of the wall the boy had witnessed other acts of violence. ‘What exactly did you see, Dickon?’

‘I saw him kill,’ replied Dickon impatiently, as though Bartholomew had not been paying proper attention. ‘And I kill him.’

‘When?’ pressed Bartholomew, aware that Tulyet was more anxious than ever. He imagined it would not be pleasant to have an infant son so eager to commit murder with his toys. ‘Today? When you saw those two men fighting with Michael and me?’

‘No,’ said Dickon, as if it were obvious. ‘When I played with my dog.’

‘Before yesterday, then,’ said Tulyet. ‘That was when his dog died.’

‘The dog died ?’ repeated Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did he shoot it?’

‘He says not,’ said Tulyet. He grasped another solution like a drowning man with a straw. ‘Eudo must have done it, intending to aim at Dickon! Lord! What kind of man shoots at a child?’

‘One whom that child is attacking,’ suggested Bartholomew. He had seen for himself that Dickon was a fair shot, so it was entirely possible he had honed his skills on people.

Tulyet knelt next to his son. ‘This is important, Dickon. What did you see?’

‘The big one has blue eyes and a little knife. He was splashing in the water. Pow!’

‘He means Eudo,’ surmised Michael. ‘Eudo is tall with blue eyes. And Eudo’s victim must be the body in the cistern, not Chesterfelde, because Chesterfelde was never in the water. If he had been, he would have been left there, not fished out and dumped in the hall.’

‘I kill him!’ insisted Dickon, stamping his foot again when the adults insisted on ignoring him.

‘Who?’ asked Tulyet, becoming exasperated. ‘The man with the blue eyes?’

Dickon nodded proudly, and Tulyet looked troubled.

‘He did shoot Eudo,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘He wounded him, but not seriously, although it was enough to make him think he was under attack by beadles.’

‘God save us,’ muttered Tulyet, rubbing his eyes. ‘I have told him never to shoot at people, but the moment he disobeys me, he saves the life of two friends. And he knows it. He thinks he has done the right thing. What shall I do?’

Bartholomew had no answer, and was grateful the child was not his to mould into a sane and law-abiding adult. He considered Paxtone’s contention that Tulyet was not Dickon’s father – that the Devil had had something to do with it – and began to think his colleague might be right.

‘You should go home,’ said Abergavenny, indicating the slime adhering to the scholars’ clothes. ‘If you hang around smelling like that, you will have half the dogs in the county slathering after you.’

‘That is good advice,’ said Duraunt. ‘It is chilly, so you can borrow my cloak and . . .’ He looked around for a suitable candidate ‘…and Polmorva’s to keep you warm until you reach your rooms.’

‘Not mine,’ objected Polmorva. ‘I do not want it smelling like a latrine, thank you.’

‘You can buy another,’ said Spryngheuse. ‘Give it to them.’

Polmorva’s expression was disdainful. ‘If I lent it to Bartholomew, it would come back ruined. I remember how he treated his clothes in Oxford, and he has not changed.’

Spryngheuse removed his own, with its hem of coarse grey fur. ‘Take mine, then. We are not all uncharitable, and I am happy to be of service to the men who will catch Roger de Chesterfelde’s killer.’

Reluctantly, Michael stripped off his filthy habit, revealing baggy silken underclothes that would have had most of the women in the town green with envy; he was a man who knew how to cater to his earthly comforts. They, too, were stained, but he declined to remove them, despite Bartholomew’s assurances that no one was very interested in what lay beneath.

‘He will make an exception for the occasional whore, I imagine,’ Bartholomew heard Polmorva mutter to Eu. ‘I do not see a fellow like that depriving himself when the mood so takes him.’

Bartholomew set a cracking pace through the darkening streets to Michaelhouse, and when he arrived, he led Michael straight to the lavatorium, a sturdy structure behind the stables. It comprised woven twig walls, a thatched roof, and a stone floor inlaid with drains. Thick beams supported suspended leather buckets that contained water, so that bathers could stand under a trickle of water while they washed. An oversized hearth in the middle of the shed not only supplied warmth on winter days, but allowed water to be heated, too.

Bartholomew decided vigorous scrubbing was the only way to deal with the unpleasant aroma that clung to him, and for some time his Welsh book-bearer Cynric was occupied with stoking up the blaze and fetching pail after pail of water from the well. The night porter, amused by the notion of two Fellows trapped in a well, repeated the tale to anyone who would listen, and it was not long before Michael had an audience of scholars and servants, eager to hear the details of his latest daring encounter with dangerous criminals. Even Agatha was present, despite the fact that the lavatorium was strictly out of bounds to the College’s only female employee. She stood with her powerful hands on her hips, shaking her head in disapproval of the attack, and even Master Langelee was not brave enough to point out that she should not be there.

‘Please, Brother,’ urged Suttone. He was fond of a good story, especially one that might be adapted to fit with his predictions about the return of the plague – and what better example of human depravity than the attempted murder of two University officials? ‘Tell us again how you came to be hurled into the cistern, and how you spent hours whispering words of encouragement to Bartholomew, to keep him swimming.’

‘Go away,’ ordered Michael imperiously. The massive silken under-tunic concealed most of his bulk, leaving only a pair of sturdy white calves for the curious to view. ‘All of you. A man’s ablutions are his own affair, and not to be carried out in front of a crowd.’

‘We are here to make sure you do them properly,’ said Agatha. ‘After all, I am the expert on washing things around here.’ She raised her chin and gazed around challengingly, and no one had the courage to point out that her expertise was limited to their clothes, and that their persons were entirely outside her jurisdiction. She took a step towards him.

‘Stay back, madam,’ shrieked Michael, clutching a piece of sacking to his chin like a reluctant maiden on her wedding night.

‘You have nothing I have not seen a thousand times before,’ said Agatha contemptuously. ‘Besides, I like men with a bit of meat on them, not skin and bone like you.’

There were a number of awed glances, as scholars and servants alike contemplated the kind of suitor favoured by Agatha, if Michael was ‘skin and bone’ by comparison. Bartholomew’s imagination reeled, and he found himself reviewing the medical problems that would be associated with such elephantine proportions.

‘She must like them immobile,’ he heard Deynman whisper to his friend Falmeresham. ‘Brother Michael is so fat he can barely walk, so anyone bigger must be unable to move at all.’

‘Probably so they cannot escape,’ Falmeresham whispered back. ‘Poor bastards!’

‘I do not care how you like them, madam,’ snapped Michael haughtily. He glared at Deynman. ‘And I am not fat; I just have big bones. But I am not going to wash with you watching me like cats with a mouse. Go away, or I shall fine the lot of you for …for pestering.’

‘Pestering,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘That sounds a useful charge for a Senior Proctor’s armoury.’

Deeply disappointed that they were to be deprived of an evening’s entertainment, the onlookers drifted away, speculating about what might have happened to culminate in Michael falling inside a cistern. Bartholomew heard Suttone suggesting to William that Oxford men might have orchestrated the attack, and closed his eyes wearily, suspecting that William would repeat this as fact, and it would not be long before gossips like Weasenham the stationer began to spread the rumour. He hoped it would not result in Cambridge scholars accusing their Oxford rivals of trying to spoil their attempts to impress the Archbishop, sure it would be the first step in a violent altercation if they did. Polmorva would not pass up an opportunity to exchange inflammatory remarks, and then the situation would spiral out of control, just as it had done on St Scholastica’s Day. Soon everyone had gone except Langelee and Cynric, who were stoking up the fire. And Agatha.

‘You, too, madam,’ said Michael coolly. ‘I cannot do anything with a woman gazing at me.’

‘I am here to help,’ Agatha declared, waving a bag of lavender. ‘I do not want my scholars smelling like latrines – imagine what that would do for my reputation as laundress.’

‘My cloak desperately needs your attention,’ intervened Langelee diplomatically, removing the garment and handing it to her. It was a handsome thing, with rabbit fur around the neck. ‘Would you be so kind? The sooner you wash it, the sooner I can have it back.’

‘It is grimy,’ agreed Agatha, inspecting it. She yawned, to make the point that Langelee was asking her to work rather late that evening. Then she left, making for the area behind the kitchens where she usually pummelled the life out of the scholars’ clothes. Michael tiptoed to the door and peered around it, to make sure she had gone. Satisfied she was not lurking in the shadows, longing for a glimpse of his flabby nakedness, he returned to his hot water.

‘Use this,’ said Langelee, proffering a block of hard fat that was strongly scented with mint and rosemary. ‘It can disguise the most rank of odours. Chancellor Tynkell gave it to me.’

‘Then it does not work,’ said Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘Besides, I do not want to “disguise” the smell. I want it gone.’

Prudishly, Michael retreated behind a screen before divesting himself of his under-tunic, then began to smear the bar all over himself, flapping and splashing like a beached whale, so Langelee was obliged to retreat or risk being soaked.

‘I had the pleasure of speaking Welsh today,’ said Cynric as he brought more water for the monk to fling around. It was the first civil word he had spoken to Bartholomew for two weeks. He was hurt and indignant that his master should visit Matilde at night, and risk moving around the dark streets without an escort. Cynric prided himself on his skill with stealth, and resented the fact that he was ordered to remain at home when he felt his role was that of nocturnal protector.

‘With whom?’ asked Bartholomew, dunking his head and repelled by the slime that still rinsed from his hair. ‘Warden Powys of King’s Hall?’

‘William of Abergavenny, a visiting merchant from Oxford,’ replied Cynric, hurling a bucket of water at Bartholomew before he was ready and making him splutter. ‘We met when I was your book-bearer in Oxford some twenty years ago, although I did not expect to see him here. We recognised each other in the King’s Head this afternoon.’

‘That villain,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘He is travelling with a spicer and a tanner, but he is the one I regard as the most dangerous.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Cynric. ‘He has a cunning mind, make no mistake about it. It comes from living among the English for so long.’

‘Did he tell you anything about the case he is here to investigate?’ asked Bartholomew. He did not point out that Cynric also spent a lot of time in England.

Cynric grinned. ‘He cannot keep secrets from an old countryman like me. He was glad to be speaking the tongue of princes, you see, and barely stopped talking the whole time we were together. He is here to look into the murder of a merchant called Gonerby, who died during the Oxford riots.’

‘That is no secret,’ said Michael. ‘He and his friends have been quite open about what they came here to do.’

‘The secret is this,’ said Cynric, enjoying the fact that he had information Michael did not. ‘This Gonerby died not from a sword wound, as the tanner told you, but from a bite. They lied about what caused his death.’

‘A bite?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘From a dog?’

‘No,’ said Cynric. ‘Because then Abergavenny would have had an easy task in solving the murder: just find a man with a vicious pet. But no dog killed Gonerby. The bite was inflicted by a devil in the guise of a man: Gonerby’s throat was torn out.’

Bartholomew gazed at his book-bearer in horror, while Langelee started to laugh at such a ludicrous notion. Michael paused in his scrubbing to regard Cynric sceptically.

‘Someone bit Gonerby to death? But that is not possible! Is it, Matt?’

‘Apparently, it is,’ said Cynric stiffly, not liking the way his information was being received by the scholars, and replying before Bartholomew could speak. ‘He was bitten in the throat, which severed some important vessel. He bled to death.’

‘Can this be true?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can a human bite kill like that?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Bartholomew, his thoughts tumbling in chaos. Michael regarded him oddly before turning his attention back to the book-bearer.

‘How does Abergavenny know this? Were there tooth marks on Gonerby’s neck? Did someone actually see what happened?’

‘Both, apparently,’ said Cynric. He looked pleased, gratified that Michael was sufficiently intrigued to ask questions. ‘Abergavenny saw the rips himself, and said they matched those of a person’s teeth in all respects. He said the wound was a terrible thing to behold.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Michael dryly, but still unconvinced. ‘Who is the witness? Not Abergavenny, or he would have told us, surely?’

‘Would he?’ queried Langelee. ‘He lied to you about how Gonerby died, so why would he confess that he had witnessed the murder? If it is true, then he will not want to bray it about, lest he become this maniac’s next victim.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Michael. He regarded Bartholomew’s pale face and haunted expression with raised eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you believe this ridiculous tale? It is a fabrication invented by these merchants to lend credibility to the hunt for their colleague’s murderer. And do not forget where Cynric heard this tale: the King’s Head, a tavern noted for the strength of its ale.’

‘Abergavenny was a tad drunk when he confided in me,’ admitted Cynric. He glared at Michael. ‘But he did not relate his story salaciously, as he would have done had his intention been to shock or frighten. On the contrary, boy, he seemed shocked and frightened himself.’

‘Then his witness – the man who saw this attack – must be a talented story-teller,’ said Michael. ‘He has ensured his account is terrifyingly macabre, even when it is repeated by others. It did not originate with Gonerby’s wife, did it? She might have invented a wild fable to ensure her husband’s friends really do track down his killer.’

‘The witness was Polmorva,’ said Cynric with satisfaction, delighted when he saw the scholars’ surprise. ‘That is why he is here.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, facts and theories ricocheting about inside his mind like acrobats. None of them made sense, and he could not have reasoned a pattern into them to save his life. Michael remained dismissive, however.

‘But Polmorva told us he came to escape the dangers of Oxford. And I have no reason to disbelieve him – he seems a cowardly sort of man.’

‘He is,’ agreed Cynric. ‘He has not changed during the two decades since we last met.’

‘He is also a liar,’ mused Langelee. ‘I heard him dissembling myself, in the stationer’s shop last week. He told Weasenham that a pen he had recently bought was defective, and demanded two in return, to compensate for the inconvenience it had caused him. But I saw him break the thing himself. Weasenham obliged, of course, because Polmorva started speaking loudly about the poor quality of the goods on sale in Cambridge, and Weasenham wanted to silence him before he lost customers.’

‘He cannot help himself,’ said Cynric. He addressed Bartholomew. ‘Remember when he told Duraunt that you spent the night with a prostitute? He knew full well that the miller’s daughter was no whore, yet he landed you in a good deal of trouble with that falsehood. Then there was the time-’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Suffice to say that he lies as easily as he breathes, and it does not surprise me to learn he has another purpose in coming here. However, I suspect he has concealed his real intentions from Duraunt.’

‘Duraunt,’ said Michael, winking at the book-bearer to indicate he would have the story of the miller’s daughter later. ‘He is not the saint you imagine, Matt. First, there is the business about him being drunk to the point of oblivion when Chesterfelde died – and then denying it; second, there is the business of the poppy juice; and third there is his friendship with Polmorva, a known deceiver.’

‘Duraunt is a good man,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘He was kind to me in Oxford, and-’

‘That was years ago,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Men change, and not always for the better. But Duraunt does drink heavily, as it happens. I saw him myself in the Cardinal’s Cap on Sunday, putting away enough strong claret to render half of Michaelhouse insensible.’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, dismayed. ‘He encourages abstinence and moderation.’

‘Then he does not practise what he preaches,’ replied Langelee. ‘I know what I saw, Bartholomew, and I have no reason to mislead you. Your old Warden is not the man you remember.’

‘How did Polmorva come to be a witness to Gonerby’s death?’ asked Michael, changing the subject when Bartholomew fell silent. The physician could hardly point out that the Master tended not to stint himself when it came to alcoholic beverages, either, and that large quantities of ale might have coloured his own perception of what he thought he had seen in the Cardinal’s Cap. ‘Cynric?’

‘Abergavenny said Polmorva was out with his sword during the unrest, intending to add to the mischief. Polmorva always did like a riot – remember how he was always first on the streets when the bells sounded the alarm? Anyway, he found himself in an area controlled by townsmen, rather than scholars, so decided to hide until it was safe to come out. It was then, as he peered through the window to assess the situation, that he saw this devil approach Gonerby and bite out his throat.’

‘And Gonerby let him do it?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Polmorva did not try to intervene?’

Cynric shrugged. ‘I only repeat what Abergavenny said. I had to loosen his tongue with a fair amount of ale before he confided that much in me, but it was worth the expense. It will make an excellent tale for Christmas, when we sit by the fire and frighten each other with accounts of demons and their evil doings.’

‘It was a demon who inflicted this fatal wound, was it?’ asked Michael, rubbing his thin, brown hair with a piece of sacking to dry it. ‘Not a person?’

‘Of course,’ said Cynric, who was always matter-of-fact where diabolical powers were concerned. Bartholomew was sure he believed far more strongly in the wicked potency of Satan than he did in the good teachings of the Church. ‘No sane fellow eats the neck of another person, so it must have been a fiend – one who looks like a man. And he fled here, to Cambridge, to escape justice.’

‘Does Abergavenny know where to find this creature?’ asked Michael, more concerned that such a mission might result in civil disorder than by the prospect of confronting a supernatural foe. No townsman would stand idle on hearing the news that there was a demon at the University who liked to chew people’s throats, while masters and students would fight to prove their school’s innocence.

‘He knows he must look among the scholars,’ said Cynric. ‘He and his friends were in the King’s Head again today, asking after any students who have arrived here since February. They also enquired whether there have been any peculiar deaths or injuries recently.’

‘The man in the cistern,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘You said he had a wound in his throat. Could that have been caused by a bite?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily. ‘It might have been.’

‘We shall know soon enough,’ said Michael, donning clean clothes and stepping out from behind his screen a new man. ‘Dick promised to dredge the well, and we shall see what emerges. This case has suddenly turned nasty, but there is nothing more we can do tonight, and I am tired. We shall interview the merchants tomorrow and demand to know why they misled us about Gonerby’s death. And we shall have words with Polmorva, too. I detest a liar, and he has told more than his share.’

‘And Duraunt,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Do not omit him from your enquiries just because Matt says he was pleasant, kind and abstemious twenty years ago.’

That night, Bartholomew lay on his bed and watched the stars through the open window, thinking about Chesterfelde, Gonerby and the body in the cistern. Were the three deaths connected, or were they independent examples of human violence? He considered the various questions that had arisen since he had inspected Chesterfelde.

First, and most disturbing, was Duraunt and his relationship to Polmorva. When Bartholomew had been a student, Duraunt had defended him many times against his rival, but now Duraunt and Polmorva were friends – or, if not friends, then allies – and Duraunt was happy to allow him to stay in Merton property. Why? Was Polmorva blackmailing Duraunt, perhaps about his drinking or weakness for soporifics? Or was there genuine affection between the two that had flourished after Bartholomew had left? And what was Polmorva’s purpose in visiting Cambridge? To escape Oxford’s unrest, as he claimed, or because he was witness to the very murder the merchants had come to solve? If the latter was true, then did it mean Duraunt was also involved in Gonerby’s death, and his decision to confront Boltone about dishonest accounting was incidental?

Mention of the bailiff brought other questions surging into his mind. The fact that Boltone and Eudo had been working near a cistern that contained a corpse was an odd coincidence, and Bartholomew was fairly sure, from the amount of blood at the pit, that Chesterfelde had died there. The stains had not come from the unidentified body, because that had been dead for much longer, and recent rains would have washed away any remaining spillage. There was also the curious fact that Chesterfelde and Eudo both had wounds on their arms. Eudo attributed his to staggering home from a tavern, while Chesterfelde was alleged to have been drunk. Did that hold any significance, or did it just mean a lot of powerful drink had been imbibed that night?

Bartholomew considered Chesterfelde further. He and Spryngheuse were accredited with starting the St Scholastica’s Day riot, although Spryngheuse denied the charge. Was it possible the unrest had been deliberately engineered, to create an opportunity for Gonerby to be bitten? But then why had the affair come to Cambridge? Were the merchants right, and the killer was a Cambridge scholar? Or was he an Oxford man who had fled to Cambridge to escape the hue and cry after Gonerby’s murder? Or was he from neither university, and his intention was to strike at both institutions? Not everyone thought scholarship was a good thing, and some folk believed it had been academic probing of matters best left to God that had encouraged Him to send the plague.

Bites. Bartholomew closed his eyes and hoped with all his heart that what Abergavenny had told Cynric was wrong. He recalled the gaping wound in the throat of the corpse in the cistern and knew it could have been caused by something tearing at it – including teeth. He wished he could have confided in Michael, but he had sworn to keep his silence, and so was condemned to struggle with his fears alone; he dared not even discuss them with Matilde. He thought about her, and smiled despite his agitation, then eased quietly off the bed, hoping his colleagues were asleep so he could leave without awkward interrogations. Lights burned in the chamber where William lived, so he forced himself to wait until they were doused. Of all the Fellows, William would be the one to issue a direct challenge if he caught someone leaving in the middle of the night, and the physician was far too tired to prevaricate convincingly.

Eventually, all candles were extinguished, and he left with the liripipe wrapped inexpertly around his head in the hope that the ruse devised by his sister would work. It was drizzling and, since his own cloak was being laundered, he donned Spryngheuse’s instead, hoping the Merton man would not mind. He crept through the sleeping College and slipped out through the orchard door, careful to leave it unlocked, although he predicted he would find it barred from the inside by the time he returned.

He trotted along the empty streets to the Jewry, ducking into doorways in a feeble attempt at stealth. He saw no one watching him, but was painfully aware that his wits were dulled from exhaustion. His best hope was that the hated liripipe would do its work. It was scratchy, restrictive and uncomfortable, and he determined that if anyone recognised him that night he would never wear the thing again.

At last he reached Matilde’s house, where he knocked softly. The door opened almost immediately, indicating she had been waiting for him. He stepped inside, then saw who was sitting on the bench near the hearth.

‘Good evening, Matt,’ said Michael, sipping from a goblet of wine. His eyes were irresistibly drawn upwards. ‘Nice hat.’

* * *

‘You could have trusted me,’ said Michael reproachfully, as he sat with Bartholomew and Matilde in her tiny house later that night. They had spent at least three hours talking softly, ironing out all the misunderstandings that had accrued over the last fortnight. Bartholomew was indescribably relieved, and felt as if a great burden was lifted from his shoulders. Some of his tiredness began to dissipate, too, and he realised his nocturnal duties had placed him under more strain than he had appreciated.

‘It was not my decision to make,’ he replied, sipping the wine Matilde had poured him. It was sweet and pale, and he felt it warming him through to the stomach.

‘It was bad enough placing Matthew in such an awkward position,’ explained Matilde. ‘I could not justify doing it to you, as well. You are a monk, and it would do your reputation no good at all to be seen coming out of my house at questionable hours.’

‘It has not done much for his, either,’ Michael pointed out. ‘I bullied the Weasenhams into silence, but it is like using a twig to dam a river. The rumours are rife, and his refusal to deny them has made tongues wag all the harder.’

‘We shall have to concoct an explanation that will restore our good names when this is over,’ said Matilde unhappily. ‘Folk respect Matthew, and will not believe ill of him for long.’

‘People are fickle,’ countered Michael. ‘They may well like him, but that will not stop them from turning on him like wild animals, if properly incited.’ He saw his friends wince at his choice of similes, and spread his hands in apology.

‘How is our patient?’ asked Matilde, indicating the upper chamber of her house with a nod of her head. ‘You said last night that you thought he might be on the mend, Matthew.’

‘His fever has lessened, and the wound does not burn so fiercely. I think he will survive now.’

Matilde heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God! I do not know what we would have done if he had died. We would have gone to the gallows.’

‘You took a great risk,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially to help someone like Doctor Rougham. He would not have done the same for you, Matt. On the contrary: he would have used the situation as an excuse to cause you as much damage as possible.’

‘I am not doing it for him,’ said Bartholomew. He looked at Matilde and his bleak expression softened with affection. She smiled back, but sadly, and it did not touch her eyes. Michael watched the exchange with frank curiosity, but kept his thoughts to himself.

‘How did you guess what was going on?’ Matilde asked the monk, twisting her empty goblet through restless fingers. ‘Why did you not believe Matthew was enjoying the company of a harlot every night, as everyone else seems to have done?’ Her voice was bitter.

‘You cannot blame them,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘You must see how it looks for a man to slink away in the dark and visit you – Mistress of the Guild of Frail Sisters – night after night.’

Matilde shook her head, and the monk was startled to see the sparkle of tears. She was exhausted, and the relief of sharing her burden was almost too much to bear. Her voice was angry as she embarked on a sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. ‘It is not fair! I was awarded my dubious reputation the moment I set foot in this town, although I did little to deserve it. I admit, I accepted the occasional man into my chambers at first – if he could afford my fees – but they were infrequent. Do you know that no man has secured my favours for more than two years now? I am as chaste as you are, Brother.’

Bartholomew stared into the fire, thinking that she might have chosen a better example of chastity than the fat monk. However, he was certain she was telling the truth about her own situation; she had mentioned several times of late that her days of frolicking with wealthy patrons were over.

‘They jump to those conclusions because of your association with whores,’ said Michael gently. ‘You cannot stand up for their rights and expect not to be connected with what they do.’

Matilde was distressed. ‘When I first came here, I thought it was amusing to be the subject of such exotic tales. But those things are for younger women, and now I am older, I crave respectability – I want an end to all this merry chatter. But this business with Rougham has done damage I fear will prove irreparable.’

Bartholomew watched the flames devour a log, destroying it slowly but inexorably, just as the town’s gossip was doing to Matilde’s chances of earning respect. She would never have it, no matter how long she remained in Cambridge, playing the role of an upright and moral woman. It was simply more interesting for people to believe otherwise, and he knew they would do so for the rest of her life. Her only recourse was to move away, but he hoped she would not. However, if she did want to leave, he decided to go with her, prepared to give up his life as a scholar for the woman he loved so deeply. He felt an urge to ask her to marry him there and then, but an uncomfortable shyness suddenly assailed him, and he knew he could not broach the subject when Michael was present.

‘How did you guess, Brother?’ he asked instead, dragging his thoughts away from a future with Matilde, and grateful that at least he would not have to lie to Michael any more. The monk was astute, and it had been difficult trying to mislead him.

‘Through a few clues here and there, and a good deal of cleverness,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘But I put the last pieces of the puzzle together when Cynric told that outrageous story about Gonerby being killed by a bite. You were appalled, but not surprised. While I argued with Cynric that it is impossible to die in such a manner, you remained suspiciously silent. And you are not usually mute about such matters.’

‘You mean on methods of killing?’ asked Matilde, regarding Bartholomew uneasily.

‘On anything to do with physiology. I had to ask him direct questions about these bites, whereas normally he would have volunteered the information in tedious detail. Also, he had mentioned a throat wound in the body in the cistern, but it was left to me to make the connection between that and Gonerby. He is not often slow to see such associations, and his reaction sent me a clear message: he had encountered such an injury before.’

‘But how did you go from that to me?’ asked Matilde.

Michael shrugged. ‘It was obvious once I thought about it. I have been nagging him about his visits here for days, and I sensed there was more to them than romping in your attic. Nor is he a man to put personal enjoyment before the reputation of a lady, especially one he adores. Therefore, I reasoned that it was not you he was here to see, but someone else. A patient.’

‘How did you guess it was Rougham?’ asked Bartholomew, acutely aware of Matilde’s flush of pleasure that accompanied Michael’s words.

Michael smiled ruefully. ‘I did not. He was the last person I expected to discover! But tell me again what happened.’ He raised a hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘I know you swore never to reveal his secret, but I already know the essence of this tale, so it cannot harm to fill in the details. And I may be able to help. You two have aroused so much suspicion that you will be hard-pressed to remove him from this house without being seen. You will need my assistance.’

‘He will not like it,’ warned Matilde. ‘He almost died before I persuaded him to summon Matthew, and he made us both swear, on our lives, that we would keep his story secret.’

‘I do not care,’ said Michael harshly. ‘The man has been responsible for harming – perhaps permanently – two of my friends. I do not care what he likes or dislikes. And, what is more important, he is lucky I do not storm up to his sickbed and fine him for dallying with loose women.’

A weak knock sounded through the ceiling. ‘There he is again,’ said Matilde wearily. ‘I thought you said he was better.’

‘He is – and that will be the problem from now on,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He is well enough to make demands. The sooner we take him to Gonville the better. Then his colleagues can tend him.’

‘I am exhausted,’ said Matilde, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. ‘You see to him, Matthew. I shall need all my strength to deal with him again tomorrow.’

‘Now I understand why you refused to let me visit her,’ said Michael softly. ‘You knew she would either be sleeping or wrestling with Rougham’s care.’

‘His illness has been severe, and he has needed someone with him almost every moment for the past two weeks. We agreed that Matilde would tend him from dawn until I was able to escape at night, and I would care for him during the hours of darkness – I could not come during the day, not without affecting my teaching and other patients. And there was you to consider: you would have been suspicious, had I started to visit her at the expense of my other duties.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But this affair has worn both of you to the bone.’

Bartholomew grinned wryly. ‘Weasenham and other like-minded men have assumed our exhaustion is due to energy expended on each other, but the truth is that we have been so weary that we can barely exchange greetings. Frolicking in any form has been out of the question.’

‘Damn Rougham,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘He does not know what he has done.’

‘Come with me,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Matilde was sleeping. Tenderly, he covered her with a blanket, and led the way upstairs. ‘Rougham can tell you his tale himself.’

Michael followed him to the upper room in Matilde’s attractive home. A bed filled most of the chamber, loaded with furs and cushions. A man lay among them, his eyes bright with ill health and his face flushed. His breathing was shallow and rapid, but he seemed alert enough. To Bartholomew, he was dramatically improved; there had been times when he had been certain that his fellow physician would die. Now the fever was receding, and all he needed was to regain his strength with rest and a carefully designed diet.

‘There you are,’ said Rougham peevishly. ‘I have been knocking for hours. You promised there would be someone with me every minute of the day.’

‘You no longer need that degree of attention,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the bed, and holding the man’s wrist to assess the rate of his pulse. ‘You are on the road to recovery and will be able to go home soon.’

‘No!’ breathed Rougham. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was objecting to leaving Matilde, and was about to say that he had imposed himself on her for quite long enough, when he glanced up to see Rougham’s eyes fixed on Michael. ‘You promised to keep my secret! You have broken your word!’

‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said Michael sharply. ‘And you owe him a good deal. Do you have any idea what coming here every night has cost him? And Matilde, who has been obliged to look after you all day while he teaches, tends his patients, examines corpses for me, and tries to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss?’

‘I will pay them,’ said Rougham angrily. ‘I am a wealthy man, and reward people for good service and discretion.’ He glared at Bartholomew in a way that indicated he felt he had not been given either.

‘Gold is not everything,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And before you abuse the two people who saved your life, let me inform you that they have kept their promise. I guessed Matt was coming here to nurse a patient, although I confess I was surprised when I learned it was you – I thought it would be one of the Frail Sisters. How in God’s name did you allow yourself to be seduced by a whore?’

There was a pause, during which Rougham regarded Michael in disbelief, scarcely crediting that one man should ask such a question of another. Eventually, he answered. ‘Surely even a monk must understand that normal males need women to rebalance their humours? I rebalance mine with Yolande de Blaston every first Monday in the month. It helps to be regular. That is a medical fact.’

‘Is it?’ Michael asked Bartholomew. The physician shrugged that he did not know, so Michael went back to regarding Rougham with distaste. ‘You visit Yolande in her house? Where she lives with her husband and children?’

‘Well, I can hardly invite her to Gonville, can I?’ snapped Rougham. ‘Besides, her family are very accommodating, and I always take marchpanes for the brats. Her husband, meanwhile, is grateful for any money that can go towards feeding them all.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew, who had known about the Blastons’ peculiar marital arrangements for years. Personally, he believed the family would have been a good deal smaller if Yolande’s nocturnal enterprises had been curtailed, and was certain very few of her offspring were fathered by the carpenter. But every child was deeply loved, regardless of the fact that several bore uncanny resemblances to prominent townsmen and high-ranking members of the University.

‘I always hire her late at night, and tell my colleagues that I am going to see a patient,’ Rougham went on. ‘It is not unusual for physicians to be called out at odd times, so they never question me.’

‘So, did Yolande or one of her family hurt you?’ asked Michael, indicating the bandages that swathed the man’s shoulder.

‘Of course not! I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting.’ Rougham snapped his fingers at Bartholomew to indicate he was thirsty, and only continued with his tale when watered wine had been brought. ‘I was approaching her house for our usual liaison, when I sensed something amiss. Someone was watching me. I could not shake off the feeling, but I had paid Yolande in advance and I was loath to waste my money by going home again; and there was my medical need to consider. I decided to continue with my …physic. I knocked on her door, and it was then that the attack occurred. I recall very little about it, other than that it was quick and very vicious.’

‘Yolande could not keep a seriously injured man in her house,’ elaborated Bartholomew. ‘There is no room. So, she and her husband carried him here. The next day Matilde sent for me.’

‘It is not a crime to be attacked,’ Michael pointed out, puzzled. ‘Why did they not take him to Gonville, where he could be nursed by his students?’

Rougham grimaced. ‘I am a physician. I know what happens to men in the grip of fevers – and I felt a terrible one coming upon me. I knew I would rant in my delirium, and did not want my colleagues to hear me praising the delights of Yolande de Blaston. Bartholomew and Matilde agreed to treat me here, taking turns to watch over me as the fever peaked.’

‘Most charitable,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But why were they so obliging?’

‘Look,’ said Rougham, pulling away the bandage to reveal the wound underneath. It was inflamed and raw with marks that were unmistakably the imprints of human teeth. Rougham had been bitten on the shoulder, near his neck. He shuddered as he covered the injury again. ‘I had the sense that the man wanted to rip my throat from my body! It was horrible, like being at the mercy of a wild animal.’

‘A bite,’ said Michael, glancing at Bartholomew. ‘That certainly explains why you needed Matt, but not why he agreed to help you – at such cost to himself.’

Rougham closed his eyes. ‘Because of who attacked me.’

‘You cannot know that,’ said Bartholomew, and from the tone of his voice, Michael sensed this was something they had argued about before. ‘Not for certain. You said you did not see him clearly.’

‘I am not a fool,’ said Rougham tiredly. ‘And there was more than enough evidence to tell me who launched himself from the shrubs, just as I was raising my hand to knock on Yolande’s door. It was Clippesby, Michaelhouse’s resident madman.’

Michael’s jaw dropped open in astonishment. ‘Clippesby?’

‘It was not him,’ argued Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Rougham accused him, but Clippesby says someone else is responsible.’

‘Clippesby is a lunatic, who thinks animals talk to him,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘He claims I was attacked by a giant wolf! Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? The truth is that he bit me, but he is so deranged that he has convinced himself that someone else is at fault.’

Michael regarded Bartholomew soberly. ‘He is addled enough to imagine such a thing, Matt.’

‘The man is downright dangerous,’ continued Rougham. ‘You were right to take him away and lock him up where he can do no more harm.’

After a while, Rougham began to doze, exhausted by the effort of talking. With deft, instinctive movements, Bartholomew bathed his head, and adjusted the covers, so he would not be exposed to draughts. When his breathing became regular with sleep, Michael spoke in a low voice.

‘So that is why you have refused to let Clippesby return to Michaelhouse. We thought you were being overly protective of him, but you are afraid he really did harm Rougham.’

‘Rougham is often nasty to him, and Clippesby is not so witless that he cannot see when he is being derided. I decided to err on the side of caution. Rougham agreed to say nothing about Clippesby, as long as Matilde and I keep quiet about Yolande.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘We even have a written contract to that effect, would you believe? The man was lying in bed with a wound that looked set to prove fatal, and he dictated a legal document! He is incorrigible!’

‘And you did all this to protect Clippesby? You know that if Rougham told anyone else what had happened, Clippesby would hang?’

‘And to help Matilde. She was kind to Clippesby, and he repaid her by commissioning a silversmith to make her a tiny carving of a dog. Weasenham saw it being crafted, and drew some spiteful conclusions about who would receive it. Rougham had heard these speculations, and spotted the ornament on Matilde’s shelf. He said he would not tell Weasenham she was the recipient of Clippesby’s gift, if we returned the favour by keeping his secret. It was all rather sordid, actually. I would have kept his confidences anyway, and there was no need for him to resort to blackmail.’

Michael sighed. ‘What a mess! It is hard to know where the work of evil men ends, and where the work of good men and fools begins.’

‘And which am I?’

‘A bit of each. That is why Matilde thinks so highly of you.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Do you think I should marry her?’ The question surprised him as much as it did Michael, and he realised exhaustion was making him voluble.

Michael was silent for a long time. ‘If you do, you will have to resign your Fellowship and give up your teaching. The University will no longer be open to you, and I will probably not be permitted to keep you as my Corpse Examiner – although I will apply for special dispensation.’ He nodded towards the sleeping Rougham. ‘He has always envied you that post, and will doubtless try to secure it for himself once he hears you are wed.’

‘I will not miss inspecting bodies, but I cannot imagine life with no teaching. However, Matilde is worth the sacrifice.’

‘Do not ask her yet,’ advised Michael practically. ‘Wait until you have both rested, and then neither of you will make a decision that is influenced by weariness. Marriage is a big step, and should not be taken lightly. But we should not be discussing this with Matilde downstairs; she may wake up and hear us. Tell me about Clippesby, instead. Do you really believe he is innocent?’

Bartholomew stared at the floor. ‘You know what he is like about animals. It is not such a huge step from imagining they talk to you, to thinking you are one – and it is not wholly beyond the realm of possibility that, in a moment of madness, he saw himself as a wolf. I have read about such cases, and once met a man who thought he was a squirrel. He kept his cheeks stuffed with nuts.’

‘But this is different,’ said Michael. ‘And there is more, too. I can see it in your eyes.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, relieved to share his worries at last. ‘Clippesby has not remained at Stourbridge since I put him there. He has escaped to wander at least three times – more, if we count that time last February, when he said he had been to visit his father.’

‘We did not believe him at the time,’ mused Michael, remembering. ‘But he returned safe and sound, and we forgot about it. But what is so odd about that? Scholars often disappear without proper permission – look at Hamecotes and Wolf. And Clippesby was not locked away in Stourbridge then, anyway.’

‘February,’ said Bartholomew significantly. ‘You know what happened in February.’

‘The St Scholastica’s Day riots,’ breathed Michael in understanding. ‘When Gonerby was bitten to death by a man about to travel to Cambridge. Clippesby was gone for about ten days. Is that enough time to travel to Oxford and back?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And, since arriving at Stourbridge, Brother Paul tells me he left the precinct once about a week ago and again on Saturday night.’

‘Saturday night was when Chesterfelde died,’ said Michael, alarmed.

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘And the body in the cistern looked to have been dead for several days – perhaps a week. I may be able to be more accurate when I examine it properly.’

It occurred to him that there was something horribly untimely about the demise of Okehamptone – the Oxford man who had died from the fever – too. He had perished the night Rougham was attacked, when Clippesby had been out without a credible alibi. Clippesby had even recommended that Michael should review Okehamptone’s death, claiming that the Merton Hall geese had been suspicious about it. Bartholomew’s nagging unease about the scribe’s end was compounded by the fact that Paxtone was supposed to have examined the body, but had actually done no more than pray. He was torn between a desire to know for certain that Okehamptone had died of natural causes, and the fear of discovering teeth marks that would implicate Clippesby in yet another assault.

‘But why, Brother?’ he asked, declining to load all his concerns on to the monk. ‘Why would Clippesby go all the way to Oxford, bite a man and then come home? It makes no sense.’

‘The insane are not bound by the same rules as you and me,’ preached Michael. ‘You will not understand Clippesby’s motives if you think about them until Judgement Day.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes, then opened them again when he felt sleep begin to creep up on him. ‘He has never been violent before.’

‘That does not mean he will never start. You have often said you know little about ailments that afflict the mind. Who knows what Clippesby might be capable of? And you are clearly worried, or you would not have taken the dramatic precaution of locking him away.’

‘I do not know what to think. The fact that I may have incarcerated an innocent man is not a pleasant thought, but neither is the notion of a maniac on the loose. Human bites are dangerous, even when they do not rip vital blood vessels.’

‘You did the right thing, Matt. It would be terrible for Michaelhouse – and the University – if the news were to spread that one of our scholars likes to eat other men’s throats. The town would rise against us for certain, and it could be the end of us all.’

‘And definitely the end of Clippesby. I like him, Brother; I cannot believe he is a killer.’

‘I shall reserve judgement. But proving him innocent will not solve our problems. If we learn he is not the man who attacked Rougham, Gonerby and the fellow in the cistern, then we shall be obliged to hunt another lunatic with roving teeth – one who has a far more deadly purpose than gnawing on a man who was unkind to him.’

‘Perhaps these deaths are unrelated,’ suggested Bartholomew hopefully. ‘It is a pity Chesterfelde is buried. I feel I should assess him again, to see whether I missed tooth marks on his body.’

‘He is not buried,’ said Michael. ‘The Franciscans initiated some tiresome theological wrangle over whether a man from a city under interdict can be placed in holy ground elsewhere, and the visitors from Merton are still awaiting the outcome. You can examine him, if you think you should.’

‘The wound was messy, and I was not looking for teeth marks at the time. It would be useful to know for certain whether they played a role in his demise.’

‘We will find out tomorrow. Then we will visit Stourbridge and make sure Clippesby is well secured. If he is guilty, then it can do no harm. If he is innocent, then it will protect him, should this story seep out. How much longer can you keep Rougham here?’

‘He is on the mend, thank God, and will be able to return to Gonville in a day or two. He signed that contract, so he will not say anything to damage Clippesby.’

Michael was not so sure. ‘As long as he thinks he is the only one Clippesby attacked, he will abide by what he agreed. But what happens when he learns about Gonerby and the man in the cistern? He will be afraid the killer might try to harm him again – to finish what he started – and will speak out, just to make sure his colleagues afford him an appropriate level of protection. It will not be many days before Clippesby is exposed. You must keep Rougham here for as long as possible, so he cannot hear town gossip.’

‘I cannot, Brother. He is a physician and knows how to read the state of his own health.’

‘Then you will have to bring about a relapse,’ said Michael seriously.

Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘There are laws against that kind of thing, not to mention issues of professional misconduct. I will not make a patient ill.’

‘Then you may find you have even more victims to tend,’ warned Michael. ‘I sense we are on the verge of civil unrest that may see the University and its scholars gone from this town for ever. Look at Oxford. Do you want us under interdict, too? You may pray for Rougham’s recovery, but I shall put in a request for a lingering convalescence!’