The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 6

Despite Michael’s prayers, Rougham slept well that night. Bartholomew knew his colleague would remain weak for a day or two, and Matilde agreed to tend him for a while longer, although it was clear the prospect did not appeal in the slightest. She was relieved that Bartholomew was no longer obliged to spend his nights nursing the man, but was still concerned for his reputation and her own. Bartholomew thought it was far too late to worry – the damage had been done – and only hoped Clippesby was innocent, because he did not like to think he had squandered his good name to protect a guilty man.

Bartholomew and Michael took turns to watch Rougham, so both could rest at least part of the night, and left her house two hours before dawn. Then the physician had the satisfaction of entering Michaelhouse respectably, through the front gate and in company with the Senior Proctor. As if to announce the occasion to the rest of the College, the porter’s peacock released several piercing shrieks that had a number of scholars peering through their windows to see what was amiss. Before he retired to his chamber. Bartholomew made a brief detour to the orchard, Michael in tow, and was not surprised to discover the small gate securely barred.

‘Who keeps doing this?’ he demanded, as he stumbled back through the dark garden towards his room. ‘Someone who knows what I am doing for Clippesby, and who wants me to fail?’

‘William, perhaps?’ pondered Michael. ‘Clippesby is a hated Dominican, after all.’

‘Or Langelee, because he thinks a student is leaving it open? Or Wynewyk, because he dislikes the notion of any man having dealings with women? Or Suttone, because he believes crimes like fornication will bring back the plague?’

Michael sighed. ‘It could even be the porters, doing their duty properly for once, and walking around the College to ensure it is locked. We could wait here one night, I suppose, and catch him. There is no other way to find out, because asking will beg the question of how we know it was left open in the first place.’

‘As soon as I have organised my students for the day, I will examine Chesterfelde’s body,’ said Bartholomew, opening the door to his chamber and rummaging for candle and tinderbox. ‘Did you ask Matilde about Eudo and Boltone, by the way? William said they had stolen something from her.’

‘We spoke when you were changing the dressing on Rougham’s shoulder,’ replied Michael, plumping himself down on a stool that creaked under the weight. ‘Eudo visited her several days ago, claiming his wife had female pains, and could she spare medicine to ease them. After he had gone, she noticed Clippesby’s silver dog was missing, but she says she cannot be sure he was the thief, and declines to make an official complaint.’

‘He is not married, although there is no reason for her to know that,’ said Bartholomew, speaking softly, so he did not disturb those sleeping in the nearby rooms. ‘Do you think he knew Rougham was upstairs, and wanted to learn more about the nature of his injury?’

‘You think he has something to do with the murders,’ surmised Michael. ‘He and Boltone must be involved in something nasty, or they would not have tried to kill us for asking questions. Of course, Eudo may well have a lover, and really did need Matilde’s medicine. Men do ask her to help with that sort of thing, you know. Those two missing scholars at King’s Hall – Hamecotes and Wolf – are just two of many who rely on her for cures for their secret women. She told me so herself.’

Bartholomew grabbed Spryngheuse’s cloak, not pleased to hear that the lady he intended to marry was the focus of so much male attention, and made for the door. ‘I am restless and need to walk.’

Michael gave a startled laugh. ‘You cannot go out now; it is pitch black outside! I do not want it said that Michaelhouse has two insane Fellows – you and Clippesby, both wanderers in the dark.’

‘It is too hard to talk here. I am afraid our voices will wake the students sleeping upstairs.’

‘You could sleep yourself,’ suggested Michael. ‘God knows, you need some.’

‘My mind is too full of questions. Will you come with me?’

‘I will not! Sit down, Matt.’

‘I cannot stay here,’ insisted Bartholomew, pacing in agitation. An idea occurred to him. ‘I will visit St Giles’s Church and inspect Chesterfelde. I have a great deal to do today, and it will help if I do not have to find time to examine him, too.’

‘In the dead of night?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘People will wonder what you are up to.’

‘I have done it before – at your instigation, I might add. Besides, I am less likely to be seen now than if I go during daylight. Churches are very public places.’

‘Not this one,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Chesterfelde is not in St Giles’s, because its vicar objected over this interdict business. He lies in All-Saints-next-the-Castle.’

‘But that has no roof,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And it has no priest and no parishioners, either – not since the plague took them. Worse, it is sometimes used by folk who think God and His saints abandoned them during the pestilence – witches and the Devil’s disciples.’

‘I know,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But St Giles’s vicar claimed there would be a display of divine fury if the corpse touched hallowed ground before the issues regarding the interdict are resolved.’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable. ‘But that might take months. We shall have to ask the Archbishop for a decision, or Chesterfelde may still be waiting for his grave this time next year.’

‘The Archbishop,’ said Michael gloomily, following him to the door. ‘He is due to arrive in five days, and I am still no closer to catching this killer. My confidence was sadly misplaced, I fear.’

The town was silent in the hour before dawn, always a time of day the physician found unsettling. It was when he lost many dying patients, and when everything seemed unreal – either because he had been up all night, or because he had been forced awake earlier than his body was ready. That morning was no different, and he felt slightly light-headed as he walked.

Michael chattered next to him, trying to establish links between recent events. He said he understood why Clippesby might have attacked Rougham, but saw no reason for him to have killed Chesterfelde and the man in the cistern. He determined that when he next visited Clippesby, he would ask whether the Dominican knew Eudo and Boltone; he was sure they were involved in the mystery, but uncertain as to how.

‘And we cannot forget Abergavenny and his associates,’ he added. ‘If Gonerby did indeed die from a bite, then there is a connection there, too.’

Bartholomew was too tired to fit the facts into a logical pattern, and almost at the point where he did not care. He crossed the deserted Great Bridge and began to stride up Castle Hill, Michael wheezing at his side. It was a steep incline for Cambridge, topped by the brooding mass of the Norman fortress. This was a formidable structure, with a stone tower standing atop a sizeable motte, and sturdy curtain walls that defended its bailey. All Saints stood near its main gate. The church had once been impressive, and had served as castle chapel before a purpose-built one had been raised inside. Then All Saints had been relegated to parish church for those who lived in the nearby hovels. Poverty and dismal living conditions had conspired against these people when the plague had struck, and most had died. With no congregation and no priest, the building had crumbled from neglect. Now, when people referred to All Saints, most folk thought of the grander All-Saints-in-the-Jewry.

In the dark, it looked even more unprepossessing than it did during the day. The roof timbers were cracked and broken, giving its top a jagged, uneven look. Ivy climbed up its walls and seemed the only thing keeping them standing, and the squat tower with its broken battlements was a sinister and forbidding crag against the night sky. Bartholomew inched along the weed-encrusted path that led to the west door, moving slowly so his feet did not catch in the matted undergrowth. Michael followed, swearing when he stumbled and stung himself on nettles.

The physician pushed open a door that hung from broken hinges, and wondered what the Oxford men thought of being provided with an abandoned chapel in which to lay their dead. It was disrespectful, and it occurred to him that one might be so affronted on Chesterfelde’s behalf that he might attempt to avenge the insult. Duraunt would not, Bartholomew thought: he would believe prayers would do Chesterfelde more good than fine surroundings, while Polmorva would do nothing that did not benefit him directly. And the others? Bartholomew did not know them well enough to say. He took a deep breath as he stepped through the door and into the black interior.

* * *

Water dripped in echoing plops, and the entire place stank of mould and rotting wood. The ivy that coated the outer walls had made incursions inward, too, crawling through windows and those parts of the roof that were open to the elements. People had been in to see what they could salvage, and most of the floor had been prised up and spirited away. Paint peeled from the walls, although, when Michael lit a lamp, Bartholomew could still make out some of the images that had been lovingly executed by some long-dead artist. St Paul was recognisable amid a host of faceless cherubs, while the Virgin Mary gazed from the mural over the rood screen.

Bartholomew took the lamp and made his way to the chancel, where he supposed the body of Chesterfelde had been taken. Even in a derelict church, this was the most sacred part, and it had not suffered as badly from looters as had the nave. It still possessed some of its flagstones, and it was on these that the water dripped, sending mournful echoes along the aisles. The altar had been left, too. It was oddly clean, and Bartholomew recalled events from several years before, when he had witnessed acts of witchcraft around it. He supposed the place was still used for devilish purposes, because it was apparent that someone visited regularly – the chancel was relatively free of the debris that littered the nave and there was evidence that candles had been lit. But then, perhaps someone loved All Saints, and performed small acts of devotion to ensure it retained some of its dignity.

Chesterfelde lay on what looked to be a door resting atop a pair of trestles. He was covered by a grey woollen blanket, and a piece of sacking moulded into a cushion near his feet suggested someone had been kneeling there. Since Duraunt was the only priest in the party from Oxford, Bartholomew supposed the crude hassock was to protect his ancient knees.

The body was much as Bartholomew remembered from his examination three days before, although someone had wiped its face and brushed its hair. He had assessed it meticulously the first time, and knew he would learn nothing new by repeating the process. All he wanted to do that morning was study the wrist and see whether he could identify teeth marks.

He peeled back the cover and pushed up Chesterfelde’s sleeves. The body’s right arm was unmarked, although there were patches of hardened skin around the thumb that were familiar to a physician used to treating scholars. They were writing calluses, caused by the constant chafing of a pen. Then Bartholomew inspected the left wrist. The wound was still there, ragged and open, but it was now washed free of blood.

‘If Chesterfelde died near the cistern – and the stains there suggest he did – then someone cleaned him up before taking him to the hall,’ he said. ‘The only reason for anyone to do such a thing is to mislead those examining the body. I cannot begin to imagine why: it does not matter whether Chesterfelde died from a slash to his arm or a stab in his back. It is murder, regardless.’

‘Are you certain the wrist wound killed him? Is it possible he injured himself, but managed to stem the bleeding, and died from some other means? Poison, maybe? Or suffocation?’

‘It is possible, but this wound unattended would certainly have brought about his death. Look. You can see the severed blood vessels.’

Michael made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘A simple yes or no would have sufficed, Matt. But what made the injury? Can you tell whether it was teeth?’

‘It is ragged,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the gash carefully. ‘And longer than it is deep.’

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael impatiently, uninterested in the mechanics of the damage and wanting only to know what it implied for his investigation.

‘Meaning it is a slashing wound, not a stabbing one.’

Michael considered. ‘Well, you do not stab with your teeth – unless you have long fangs like Warden Powys of King’s Hall. You are more likely to slash with them.’

‘But not in this case, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, straightening up. ‘I see no evidence that teeth were used, just some blunt old knife that was in sad need of sharpening.’

‘Clippesby did not do it, then?’ asked Michael, relieved. ‘So, we are back to our original suspects – Eudo and Boltone, and the Oxford men: Polmorva, Spryngheuse, Duraunt and the merchants.’

‘Not Duraunt,’ pressed Bartholomew doggedly. ‘But do not leave Dodenho of King’s Hall off your list. He knew Chesterfelde, and he lied about it. And there is that curious business about his silver astrolabe, which was stolen, then found, then appeared at Merton Hall in the tanner’s hands.’

‘I have not forgotten Dodenho,’ said Michael. ‘Nor his conveniently missing colleagues, Hamecotes and Wolf. Nor Norton, either, who also admits to knowing Oxford.’

‘It is a pity Okehamptone is buried,’ said Bartholomew, replacing the sheet over Chesterfelde, and glad that particular task was over. He recalled what Clippesby had said about the scribe’s death: that the geese knew more about it than Michael. Was the man spouting nonsense in his deranged state, or was he playing some complex game in which only he knew the rules? ‘I would be happier if we knew for certain Clippesby had nothing to do with that, either.’

‘Okehamptone died of natural causes,’ said Michael, surprised by the comment. ‘Paxtone confirmed it – said there was no doubt at all. He even signed a document to that effect, at Polmorva’s request, because Polmorva was Okehamptone’s designated heir.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Paxtone did not examine the body: he accepted the explanations of the dead man’s companions, and he said a few prayers, but that is all. And now you say Polmorva had a strong motive for murdering him? He will inherit all Okehamptone owned?’

Michael’s eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘Are you saying Okehamptone’s death might be suspicious, too?’

‘I have no idea, but I doubt you will ever get permission to find out. People do not like disturbing the dead once they have been buried. Damn Weasenham’s toothache! If he had not summoned me, I would have been able to examine Okehamptone in the first place.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘Damn indeed. I should have known to look more carefully at a death in which a man like Polmorva was involved. Let us not forget that business about how much wine was swallowed on the night of Chesterfelde’s death, either. Spryngheuse said Polmorva drank very little. Perhaps he waited until the others were suitably insensible, and then used the opportunity to rid himself of Chesterfelde, buoyed up by his success with Okehamptone.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Even Polmorva would not kill without a motive.’

‘Who knows what disagreements they might have had in the past? He has not seen you for twenty years, but his enmity towards you has grown no less intense. For all we know, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde were his rivals, too. We do not know his motive, but that does not mean he does not have one.’

Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘So, if Polmorva did kill Okehamptone, then he has got away with it. We will never know whether he killed Chesterfelde, either, because no one will tell us the truth.’

‘Not so. There are questions I have yet to ask about Chesterfelde – particularly of Eudo and Boltone. I have sent the reliable and determined Beadle Meadowman to hunt for them, so it is only a matter of time before they are caught. I have not given up on Chesterfelde, believe me. And if Polmorva killed Okehamptone, then he is out of luck, too.’

‘What do you mean?’

Michael’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘Okehamptone is not buried. I told you earlier that there is a theological query about whether men from a city under interdict can be buried in hallowed ground – that is why Chesterfelde lies here in the chancel. The same is true for Okehamptone. His body is temporarily consigned to the vault, right under our feet. All you have to do is open a coffin.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘There is a big difference between looking at Chesterfelde here, and burrowing in crypts after corpses that have been interred for two weeks. I will not do it.’

‘You must,’ said Michael. ‘You are my Corpse Examiner and that is what you are paid to do. I cannot do it myself – I would not know what to look for. Besides, do you want Polmorva to evade a charge of murder in your own town? Here is your chance to strike back at the man, and show him he cannot go a-killing wherever he pleases.’

He had a point: Bartholomew was reluctant to see Polmorva commit murder and enjoy what he inherited. There had been times in the past when he had suspected his sly adversary of ridding himself of men he considered a nuisance, although he had never managed to obtain proof. Okehamptone offered a chance to investigate one death properly, and Michael was right to urge him to seize it. He followed the monk to where a stout door marked the entrance to the undercroft, and watched him struggle with the bars and bolts that were designed to keep dogs and wild animals at bay.

When the monk eventually prised it open, Bartholomew saw it led to a flight of damp, slime-covered steps that descended into a sinister blackness. Taking the lamp, he climbed down them, bracing one hand on the wall when his feet skidded on the uneven surfaces. As he went deeper, an unpleasant smell assailed him. It was a combination of the recently dead, the mould that pervaded every stone and scrap of wood in the abandoned building, and the rankness of a place that had been derelict for too many years.

When he reached the last step, he raised the lamp and looked around. The vault was a simple affair: a single chamber that was about the length of the chancel. Its ceiling was low, and thickly ribbed to shore up the weight of the building above. A number of stone tombs were placed at intervals along the walls, some adorned with metal crosses that were green and crusted with age. Several had collapsed, leaving hefty slabs lying at odd angles and rubble littering the beaten earth floor. Niches cut into the wall held coffins, all crumbling and fragile, indicating that they had lain undisturbed for years. One was not, however, and was fashioned from bright new wood.

‘I assume that is him,’ he said, turning to look at Michael only to find he was alone. He sighed impatiently. ‘I need you to hold the lamp,’ he shouted up the steps.

‘Set it on a shelf,’ Michael called back. ‘I shall stay here, and say prayers for Okehamptone’s soul. But hurry. It will be light soon, and I do not want anyone to catch us here. It will look macabre, to say the least.’

Muttering resentfully under his breath that Michael should order him to do something so deeply unpleasant and then decline to help, Bartholomew grabbed the coffin lid and tugged, anticipating that he would need to find something to use as a lever, but it yielded easily. The wood was cheap and the barest minimum of nails had been used. He leapt in alarm when a rat shot out and ran across his hand, and he became aware that more of them were moving in the darkness to one side, rustling and scratching. Hurrying to be away before they decided that fresh meat might make an interesting change from old, he turned his attention to the contents of the coffin.

Okehamptone was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was grateful the lamp was dim and masked some of the more grisly details. He had seen corpses aplenty, but not many after they had been buried or interred, and although there was little difference in the appearance of one that had been left above ground for two weeks and one that had been in a crypt, there was a subtle distinction between the two in his mind. He regarded one as part of the duty demanded by his office; the other made him uncomfortable.

Breathing as shallowly as he could, he began his examination. Okehamptone was swathed in a blanket, and the liripipe Paxtone had mentioned was still around his head and neck. Bartholomew observed that no one had done anything to the body except move it into its coffin – no one had washed it, brushed its hair or performed any of the usual acts of respect accorded to the dead.

Wanting to be thorough, Bartholomew ran his hands over the man’s head to assess for bludgeoning, then pulled back some of his clothes to look for other injuries. If Polmorva had poisoned Okehamptone, then there was nothing Bartholomew could do now, but he could ascertain whether the cause of death was due to a wound. He completed his examination, careful not to rush and miss something vital, then shoved the lid back on the box with considerable relief. He used a lump of stone to hammer the nails home again and left, slipping and stumbling up the slick steps in his eagerness to be away.

When he reached the chancel, he did not wait for Michael to secure the door after him, but darted straight into the graveyard, where he stood taking deep breaths of cool, fresh air, savouring the clean, fragrant scent of wet earth and living vegetation. His legs were unsteady and he was aware that the miasma of old death clung to his clothes. He walked to a nearby ditch, and crouched down to rinse his hands, using fistfuls of grass to scrub them clean.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, coming to stand next to him. ‘Did he die from a fever?’

‘He may have had one,’ replied Bartholomew, still breathing deeply. ‘But it is not what killed him.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the expression on his face that he already knew the answer.

‘A wound to his throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was completely concealed by the liripipe. Paxtone heard he had a fever, and thought nothing odd about the victim being wrapped up for warmth. However, Okehamptone bled to death, which explains why Paxtone said his face – what he could see of it without moving the hood – was pale and waxy.’

‘But even I know a good deal of blood escapes from a throat wound. Surely Paxtone would have noticed that?’

‘I imagine that is why the body was wrapped in the blanket – to hide the blood.’

‘Damn Paxtone! I thought I could trust him. No wonder he refused to accept payment. I thought he was being noble, but it was because his conscience would not let him take money for something he did not do. So, Okehamptone was murdered after all?’

‘I have seldom seen a more savage injury, and there is no earthly possibility that he could have inflicted it himself.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then there is one more thing I need to know.’

‘You want to know what caused it. It looks like a bite, Brother. Okehamptone died from a wound that shows clearly etched teeth marks.’

Neither Bartholomew nor Michael wanted to linger near All-Saints-next-the-Castle, so they left the churchyard and walked briskly down Castle Hill towards the town. Dawn was close, and here and there were signs that folk were stirring. Smoke wafted through the air as fires were kindled, and lights could be seen through the cracks of the window shutters of those wealthy enough to afford lamps. A cockerel crowed and a dog barked at the sound of Tulyet’s soldiers marching back to their quarters after a night on duty.

It was Michael’s turn to conduct the daily mass – although he was a monk, he had been granted dispensation by his bishop to perform priestly duties during the plague, and he had continued the practice since – and Bartholomew was scheduled to assist him, so they made their way directly to St Michael’s. While Michael laid out the sacred vessels, Bartholomew busied himself by checking the level of holy water in the stoup, sweeping the porch and lighting the wax candles that stood on the altar. Neither spoke, and Bartholomew found himself unsettled by what he had discovered – not to mention the uncomfortable sensation that Okehamptone had not approved of his meddling. He felt as though something was watching him, and edged closer to the monk.

‘The wick on this candle is defective,’ announced Michael, breaking into his uneasy musings. His voice was loud in the silence, and Bartholomew jumped. ‘I do not want it to extinguish itself just as the miracle of the sacraments is about to take place. There are those who would consider it a sign of divine disapproval.’

‘Do you want me to trim it?’

‘No, I want a new one. This is almost finished, and it looks miserly when Michaelhouse always burns its candles down to the very last scrap of wax.’

Bartholomew left the chancel and went to the large cupboard at the back of the nave where candles and incense were stored. He thought he saw a flicker of movement behind one of the pillars and his stomach clenched in alarm, but when he went to investigate, there was nothing to see. He chided himself for his overactive imagination, and supposed it had been a bat, flitting about in search of insects. He groped for the key that was ‘hidden’ on the windowsill, then removed the bar that kept the cupboard door from swinging open when it was not locked. He knelt on the floor and began to rummage for the candle, straining to see in the darkness.

When he felt a breath of movement on the back of his neck, he assumed it was Michael, treading softly on the stone floor. He was about to tell the monk that there were no candles left, but that he would remind Langelee to order more, when he became aware that the presence at his shoulder was closer than Michael would have stood. His mind full of Okehamptone’s indignant spirit, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, heart thudding in panic. It was his rapid response that saved his life, for the heavy spade that had been aimed at his head missed, and smashed against the wall with a clang that echoed all around the building. He jerked away a second time as the implement swung again, and yelled for Michael. Even his tired mind had registered the fact that spirits did not wield agricultural tools and he knew it was no ghost that was trying to kill him.

The spade descended again, and Bartholomew found himself backed against the cupboard with nowhere to go. He tried to make out the features of the shadowy figure that lurched and ducked in front of him, and which seemed so determined to dash out his brains. Was it a thief, who had seen him enter the church, and thought he would be easy prey before the other scholars arrived? Was it someone connected to the peculiar case that involved Okehamptone and others being bitten? Foremost in his mind was Polmorva, who would not want the news spread that Okehamptone’s death was suspicious – even if he had not killed the man himself, he would lose what he had inherited. Or was Polmorva innocent, and it was someone else who wanted Okehamptone consigned to the ground with no questions asked?

‘Clippesby?’ he whispered, voicing a terrible fear that his colleague might have escaped from the hospital again. ‘Is that you?’

‘Matt?’ called Michael, much further away. ‘What are you doing?’

The silhouette faltered, then the spade came at Bartholomew in a jabbing motion. The physician twisted out of the way, lost his balance and toppled into the cupboard. Sprawled among the incense, he was an easy target, so he was bemused when there was a loud crash and he was plunged into total darkness. For several moments he did not understand what had happened, then he heard footsteps and Michael’s querulous voice. The cupboard door had been slammed closed and barred. He kicked and hammered furiously, but it was still some time before it was opened. He scrambled out and looked around him wildly. There was only Michael, standing with a pewter chalice clutched in one meaty hand, held like a weapon.

‘What?’ the monk demanded. ‘I thought there was something wrong when you started yelling, and now I find you playing a practical joke. I was praying, man! Have you no respect?’

‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew shouted, pushing past him and aiming for the porch. ‘The door is open. You let him escape!’

‘Let who escape?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘There is no one here.’

‘Someone attacked me with a spade,’ yelled Bartholomew in agitation. He wrenched open the porch door and darted into the graveyard, looking around to see if he could spot someone running away or hiding. But the only movement was a cat tiptoeing through the dew-laden grass, trying to keep its feet dry.

‘A spade?’ echoed Michael, following him. ‘Who?’

‘I could not see his face,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated.

‘He was not a very efficient assassin, or you would not be here now, screeching like a demon and waking our neighbours. Keep your voice down, Matt, or we will be accused of conducting satanic rites that entail hurtling through dark graveyards and shrieking with gay abandon.’

‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew insisted, although he spoke more softly. Michael was right: window shutters were beginning to ease ajar in the houses nearby. ‘Surely you saw him?’

‘I heard a good deal of yelling and crashing – all of it coming from you. And, as for the porch door being left open, it could have been the wind. You know what that latch is like. You are overwrought after examining Okehamptone, and-’

‘I did not imagine anything,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Someone tried to hit me, then locked me in that cupboard, so he could escape.’

‘The bar had been placed across the cupboard door,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I assumed you had rigged it somehow, so it would drop down on its own, to make me wonder how you had done it. But this attack on you makes no sense. From what you say, the fellow had you at his mercy but gave up at the last moment.’

‘Probably because you were coming to my aid.’

‘Look,’ said Michael, crossing the grass to point at something. It was a sturdy spade of the kind owned by every man with a patch of ground to cultivate for vegetables. ‘This was not here when we arrived, so I suppose it is the weapon your would-be murderer intended to use.’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling weak-kneed now the excitement was over. ‘I saw nothing, other than the fact that he wore a hood to conceal his face. It could have been anyone: the Oxford merchants, Eudo or Boltone, Polmorva. Or someone from King’s Hall – Wolf, Norton or Hamecotes.’ He hesitated. ‘Or Clippesby.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘Did he say anything to you? Did you recognise his voice?’

‘He said nothing. I asked whether he was Clippesby.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder if that is what saved you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your question may have told him you were not who he wanted. Think, man! Look at what you are wearing: a distinctive grey-hemmed cloak lent to you by Spryngheuse. And Spryngheuse’s friend Chesterfelde has been murdered.’

Bartholomew considered. ‘We have just walked from Castle Hill, which is the direction we would have taken had we been coming from Merton Hall. I suppose it is possible that someone mistook me for him in the dark.’

‘So, he followed you, grabbing a spade in anticipation. His first blow missed, you began to yell and he realised he had the wrong man.’

‘What does this tell us – other than that the attacker is not Spryngheuse?’

‘It suggests it is not Clippesby, either.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘It does not. If Clippesby really is losing what little reason he has left, then it may just mean that my calling his name brought him to his senses. And it complicates matters. We have at least two deaths caused by bites, but this man did not use his teeth.’

‘That does not imply we have more than one killer. It might just mean that our man is flexing his wings, learning to experiment and use whatever comes to hand.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Lord, Brother! The sooner we resolve this, the happier I will be. I do not feel safe, and I sense that other people will die if we do not have some answers soon.’

‘I agree. My students will have to do without me for a while, because I should devote myself to this problem until it is solved. Only then can I be certain that the Archbishop’s Visitation will take place without some madman racing around wielding spades and flexing his jaws. Will you help me?’

When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, a messenger was waiting with notification that his postgraduates’ disputations had been scheduled a week earlier than anticipated, and abandoning them to help Michael was out of the question. The monk went alone to his office at St Mary the Great, to look at the records that would tell him exactly when Clippesby had applied for leave of absence over the past year – and when he had been fined for going without permission. He had not been working long when he saw a familiar figure pass his window. He set off in pursuit, catching up with the fellow as he was lighting candles in the Lady Chapel.

‘Warden Duraunt,’ he said pleasantly. ‘All alone this morning?’

The elderly master smiled. ‘Polmorva is attending a lecture at the Dominican Friary. He is a dedicated scholar, and always seizes any opportunity to hear other academics speak.’

‘He will not find much to stimulate his intellect among the Dominicans,’ said Michael, voicing what every Cambridge man knew for a fact. ‘What about the merchants?’

‘Eu is in Grantchester, to see whether the lord of the manor might buy his spices; Wormynghalle went with him, because Eu is a good businessman and our tanner is hoping to learn the secret of his success; and Abergavenny followed them, to make sure they do not argue and kill each other along the way. I find their constant squabbles a sore trial, Brother.’

‘You do seem tired,’ said Michael.

‘Did you sleep poorly?’ ‘I always sleep poorly – it is one of the burdens of old age. When it becomes too bad, I leave my bed and visit a church, just to sit in a quiet, peaceful place. Last night, for example, I went to St Giles’s at two o’clock. Polmorva escorted me, then returned to collect me just after dawn. Spryngheuse usually obliges but he has grown jittery since Chesterfelde died, and is reluctant to go out. He says he sees his Black Monk everywhere, but of course no such person exists. He invented the fellow, to take the blame for the riots, and has become so unstable that he now believes the lie.’

While he spoke, Michael watched him lighting candles, trying to assess whether he was strong enough to brandish a spade. He did not think Duraunt would harm Bartholomew, but he might have wanted Spryngheuse out of the way for reasons the monk had yet to fathom. But his examination was inconclusive, and in the end he had no idea whether Duraunt’s weariness came from attempting to kill someone with a hefty tool or from a genuinely restless night.

‘We saw Spryngheuse on the Great Bridge on Sunday,’ he said. ‘I am sure he intended to throw himself over the edge.’

Duraunt did not seem surprised. ‘I thought he would feel better, once away from the city where he is accused of bringing about a massacre, but first Okehamptone died, then Chesterfelde, and he is becoming increasingly distraught.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I sent him to the stationer’s shop, just to get him into the fresh air. Now Boltone has absconded, I am obliged to make sense of the accounts he left behind, and I need more ink.’

‘Tell me about Polmorva. Why did he really agree to accompany you to Cambridge?’

‘Because he dislikes being in a city under interdict, like any Christian soul. It is a pity Matthew will not accept his offer of a truce. I had hoped they would have forgotten their differences after all these years, but Polmorva tells me Matthew rejects all his friendly advances.’

‘Polmorva is a liar,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘I am reliably informed that he witnessed the murder of Gonerby, and that is the real reason why he is here.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Duraunt. ‘I do not believe you!’

‘I am also told that he only pretended to be drunk the night Chesterfelde died,’ Michael went on. ‘He might be the one who cut the man’s wrist and allowed him to bleed to death.’

Duraunt considered, then shook his head. ‘He would have been covered in blood, and he was not. Perhaps he did deceive us about the amount he drank, but I am sure there is an innocent explanation for that.’

‘And you?’ asked Michael. ‘What is your explanation for the amount you drank? No, do not look indignant. You may be able to divert Matt with your reproach, but not me. You were seen at the Cardinal’s Cap the night after Chesterfelde died. You were also intoxicated on the night of his murder. And then there is the poppy juice.’

‘My habits are none of your affair,’ said Duraunt sharply. ‘I admit I like a cup of wine, and we all enjoyed several the night Chesterfelde was killed. Perhaps I did imbibe too much, but who does not, on occasion? And the night after, I needed wine to restore my spirits – I was distressed about Chesterfelde, and about the fact that Matthew insists on quarrelling with Polmorva. Polmorva is destined for great things, and Matthew should acknowledge his talents.’

‘You mean Matt should grovel to him? You do not know him very well if you think he would demean himself to such a man.’

‘I do not know him at all,’ countered Duraunt. ‘He has changed – and not for the better.’

Sensing they would not agree, and not wanting an argument that would serve no purpose, Michael took his leave of Duraunt. He strode out of the University Church and headed for the Dominican Friary, where he was not surprised to learn that Polmorva was not there or that no lecture was scheduled for that morning. He was retracing his steps to the High Street, when he saw the object of his enquiries trying to slip past on the other side of the road, Spryngheuse in tow. Smiling grimly, he waddled towards them and managed to snag a corner of Polmorva’s sleeve before he could escape. He was not so lucky with Spryngheuse, who declared he was terrified of all Benedictines, and fled without another word.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Polmorva, not pleased to be waylaid by physical force. ‘Have you identified Chesterfelde’s killer yet?’

‘Where were you last night? You took Duraunt to St Giles’s Church, and collected him before dawn. Where were you the rest of the time?’

‘Asleep, of course. I am no ancient, who needs prayers to make me drowse, and I went to bed after escorting him to the chapel. Everyone else was already dozing, so I doubt they will remember me coming in. You will have to take my word for it.’

Michael changed the subject. ‘The day after Okehamptone died, you told me that you were the sole beneficiary of his will, but only if he died of natural causes. If his life ended by violent means, his property would revert to the Church, to fund masses for his soul.’

‘He did not own much,’ said Polmorva. ‘And I am already wealthy, so I shall probably donate his paltry leavings to my College – some impoverished student might cherish his cloak, two battered saddlebags and a handful of exemplar pecia. Now, if he had owned land, I might have been interested, but he did not.’

‘What about Gonerby?’ asked Michael, unsure whether to believe him. He was finding Polmorva almost impossible to read. ‘I have it on good authority that you saw what happened to him.’

‘Is that so?’ said Polmorva coldly. He tried to walk away, but Michael grabbed his arm.

‘Tell me the truth, because if you lie to me I will send word to Oxford’s Mayor that you watched a townsman murdered, and declined to step forward and do your civic duty.’

Polmorva sighed, to indicate he was bored with the discussion and that Michael’s threats were more tiresome than worrying. ‘I took refuge in a chapel when the riots began, and I happened to look out of a window to see Gonerby walking along. He was strutting confidently, arrogantly, as if he imagined no one would dare lay a finger on him. Someone did, and he died for his lack of humility.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘It was difficult to tell – I was some distance away and the killer had his back to me – but the merchants say there were teeth marks in his throat.’

‘Did you recognise the murderer?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not. All I can tell you is that he was a scholar, and he wore a hooded cloak that hid his face. There was nothing distinctive about him. However, I can tell you that he moved towards Gonerby with a definite sense of purpose.’

‘Really?’ mused Michael. ‘Then he knew his victim. This was not a random stalking during civil unrest, when everyone was free to do as he pleased, but a deliberate assassination.’

‘I do not speculate on such matters, Brother. That sort of thing is for proctors.’

Despite his determination to remain calm, Michael found the man’s manner intensely aggravating. ‘I shall be watching you very carefully, Polmorva, and if I find you played even the smallest role in bringing about these deaths – Gonerby’s, Okehamptone’s or Chesterfelde’s – I will see you hang.’

Polmorva laughed derisively. ‘Do not threaten me, monk. I am no undergraduate to be cowed by hollow words. If you want to charge me with a crime, then you had better ensure you have a very strong case, because if you do not I shall bring my own against you for defaming my good name. And, by the time I have finished, you and your pathetic little College will be ruined.’

When teaching was over for the day, Bartholomew went to visit a patient on the High Street. He was on his way home again when he met Paxtone and John Wormynghalle, walking back to King’s Hall together after attending an afternoon of lectures on logic at Peterhouse. Paxtone, always hospitable, invited Bartholomew to his chambers, and Bartholomew accepted, thinking it would be a pleasant way to pass the time before a statutory Fellows’ meeting at Michaelhouse that evening. As they crossed the yard, they saw Dodenho, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.

‘Look at him!’ said Norton, who was watching. ‘He is waiting for Warden Powys to come home, and has been strutting around in that affected manner for the best part of an hour. He is not thinking up new theories; he just wants to impress Powys, in the hope that he will be one chosen to sit next to the Archbishop of Canterbury next Monday night.’

‘Powys will not select him,’ said Paxtone with considerable finality. ‘He will spout some of his ideas on theology, and Islip might recognise them as his own. Dodenho will steal from anyone.’

‘I need an astrolabe,’ declared Dodenho, as he approached the gathering. ‘I have several complex equations in my mind, but I cannot calculate them without an astrolabe. The world is suffering as long as I am deprived.’

‘You claimed your own was stolen – and then it was not stolen,’ said Norton. ‘I heard it was last seen in the hands of one of those Oxford merchants. You should beware, Dodenho – you do not want people associating you with their crimes.’

‘What crimes?’ asked Dodenho in alarm.

‘Murder,’ replied Norton. ‘They have been asking in the taverns about scholars who kill, and I understand you were in Oxford when the St Scholastica’s Day riots took place.’

‘Were you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Dodenho waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes could not conceal his unease. ‘Only briefly, and I saw nothing of the fighting. Now, if you will excuse me.’

He scurried away, and he did not resume his scholastic pose, despite the fact that Warden Powys entered the College at that point. He merely shot across the yard like a child caught misbehaving and entered his room, where he slammed the door behind him.

‘Well,’ said Norton, amused. ‘There is an odd thing! But I cannot stand here all day. I must see a man about a dog in the King’s Head – a hunting dog.’

Bartholomew and Wormynghalle followed Paxtone to his chamber, but they had done no more than pour wine when a servant arrived with a summons for Paxtone; there had been an accident with an oven at the Mortimer bakery, he said, making graphic gestures with his hands to indicate that flames were involved. Bartholomew offered to go with him, but Paxtone assured him no help was needed and that it would not be long before he had discharged his duties. A less charitable mind might have thought Paxtone did not want another physician to watch how he treated burns, but Bartholomew was tired and had no desire to assist with someone else’s patients anyway. Wormynghalle was more than happy to keep him company, and was hauling a copy of Grosseteste’s De veritate from the shelf almost before Paxtone was out of the door.

‘Now,’ said the young scholar, plunging without preamble into the debate he had proposed the day before. ‘Grosseteste maintains that certain aspects of geometry are useful in representing “cause and effect whether in matter or the senses”. Without representation by geometric angles, lines and figures, it would be impossible to know why natural effects are as they are.’

‘Per contra abstraction is possible, of course,’ expanded Bartholomew, ‘giving us mathematical objects, and these may have accidents – that is, properties of a substance that are not part of its essential nature – of another sort, namely ones of mathematical character. Grosseteste abstracted magnitude from matter-in-motion, so accidents can be assigned to . . .’

He trailed off when Wormynghalle, eager to listen, leaned forward in his chair and knocked over a goblet of wine, which splattered over Paxtone’s best rug.

‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ Wormynghalle cried irritably. ‘This will stain unless it is soaked immediately, and he is fond of the thing.’

He hurried to fetch water, but the spilled claret made the floor slick and he skidded. Bartholomew jumped forward, managing to save him from a nasty tumble by a well-placed arm across his chest. The physician’s jaw dropped in shock, while Wormynghalle struggled from his grip and took several steps away, breathing heavily. The scholars regarded each other uneasily for some time before Bartholomew spoke.

‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘I will not tell anyone, although I imagine it is only a matter of time before someone else finds out. You cannot live in a communal place like this without someone prying into your affairs and discovering incriminating facts.’

Wormynghalle’s eyes filled with tears. ‘There is nothing incriminating to find. Believe me, I am only too aware of what will happen if my colleagues discover I am a woman, and have taken steps to guard against every eventuality – except slipping on wine and being caught by a physician. I confess, that is something I did not anticipate.’

‘What you are doing is dangerous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You may cut your hair and wear loose clothes, but there are other things that will give you away. The latrines, for a start.’

Wormynghalle waved her hand at one corner of the room. ‘Like Paxtone, I paid extra for quarters with a private garderobe and I never visit the public ones. I have lived here for two months now, and no one but you has the slightest inkling that I am not all I seem.’

‘They think you care for nothing but your studies,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the discussion with his Michaelhouse colleagues. ‘They attribute any odd behaviour to your fanatical desire to learn.’

‘What odd behaviour?’ demanded Wormynghalle, affronted. ‘I have been careful to blend into this society, and do nothing to draw attention to myself.’

‘You do not frequent taverns or hire prostitutes.’ Bartholomew shrugged. ‘In a friar or a monk that is not unusual, but total abstinence is rare in secular masters with money to spare. Also, you tend not to engage in the usual sort of manly chatter, and only indulge in discussions of a scholastic nature.’

‘Of course,’ declared Wormynghalle, surprised anyone should expect otherwise. ‘I did not come here to debauch and exchange intimacies. I am here at considerable personal risk, and I want only one thing: to learn. There are no universities for women, and convents are too restrictive. I tried one once, but the nuns would only give me texts they thought were suitable and I felt myself dying inside.’

Bartholomew nodded sympathetically, trying to imagine what it would be like if he could not read what he wanted. He was under certain restrictions as a medical practitioner, some of which he found inordinately frustrating, and supposed it was far worse for Wormynghalle.

‘I have so much to offer,’ she said in a wistful voice. ‘I am a clear and insightful thinker, and all I ask is that I be allowed to use my intellect – just as a man is allowed to use his.’

‘The situation is not fair,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And you are an excellent scholar. But is this the best way to go about it? What if it had been Paxtone who had grabbed you? He is an old-fashioned man, who would have been appalled at the deception you have perpetrated on his College.’

‘But this is the only way I can debate with like-minded people,’ said Wormynghalle, tears spurting again. ‘I could go to some remote place and surround myself with books, but that is not what I need. I want to argue my points, and to have people dispute with me and tell me why I am wrong. I want my mind to be stretched and challenged to its limits. And I want to write a great treatise on natural philosophy that will equal those of men like Grosseteste. You know how I feel, because you are equally passionate about new and complex theories. I can see it in your face when we talk.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘There is little that is more exhilarating than a debate with clever men …I mean clever people.’

‘You are writing a treatise yourself,’ pressed Wormynghalle, wiping her eyes. ‘Paxtone gave me some of it, and it is novel and unorthodox. When it is finished it will be read and debated by the best thinkers in the civilised world. But what do you think will happen to mine, if they discover it was penned by a woman?’

‘Trotula’s theories on medicine and health are widely read – and she was a woman.’

‘But they are not accepted with the same open minds as are works by men,’ Wormynghalle pointed out. ‘Your fellow medics, Rougham and Lynton, will not entertain her writings at all – not because they are flawed or inferior, but because Trotula was female, and therefore has nothing worth saying.’

‘True,’ admitted Bartholomew.

‘Then, you see I have no choice. I need the stimulation this University provides and I am discreet. I am obliged to share a room with Hamecotes, but he is too absorbed in his own work to take notice of my occasional idiosyncrasies – such as the fact that I like to close the garderobe door when I pee. If he has even considered the matter at all, it will be to think that I am foolishly modest.’

‘Hamecotes is one of several men who ask Matilde for remedies to help female pains,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are they for you?’

She nodded. ‘He thinks they are for my secret lover, and that I am too embarrassed to ask for them myself. Like many men, he is taken with Matilde, and is delighted by any excuse to visit her.’

‘Is that so?’ said Bartholomew with displeasure.

‘All I have ever wanted is to study at a University and to pit my wits against my intellectual equals and betters,’ said Wormynghalle beseechingly. ‘Please do not make me give it up.’

‘I would never do that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every man – and woman – should be free to exploit the gifts he has been given, and I understand perfectly why scholarship is appealing. I only warn that if you are discovered there will be no mercy. You may not even escape with your life. Men can be harsh and unforgiving when their domains are invaded.’

‘I know. I plan to remain here for another term, then return to Oxford, where I will join a different College to the one I was in before. Then I will come here again, or perhaps visit Paris. As long as I keep moving, and allow no one to know me well, I can continue this life for years yet.’

‘You do not look like a woman,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He realised that might be construed as offensive and struggled to make amends. ‘I mean, you have a beard and . . .’ This sounded worse, and he saw he was digging himself a deeper pit. He stopped speaking and gave an apologetic shrug.

Wormynghalle smiled. ‘All woman have a certain amount of facial hair, which they usually remove, but I strengthen mine with an ointment of white lilies. Many young men do the same to increase their beards, so no one thinks I am odd – they simply see me as a youth desperate to shave. I have a naturally bristly chin and dark hairs on my upper lip. They are a nuisance when I wear kirtles and wimples, but a great advantage when I don a tabard.’

‘What is your real name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not John Wormynghalle.’

‘I chose “Wormynghalle” because they are a clan of Oxford upstarts that I imagined would never come here. You can imagine my shock when that tanner appeared! I was obliged to visit him, and pretend to see whether we might be kin, all the while making myself unattractive, so he would not assume a connection we do not have. I did not want him thinking a scholar-relative might give him more credit with his mercantile rivals. It was all very awkward.’

‘It was lucky you chose Wormynghalle – Eu would have been far more thorough in exploring your origins.’

‘I knew that when I took the name – I deliberately avoided prominent, established families. But Wormynghalle’s relatives never leave Oxford. It was terrible bad luck that he did – and that he happened to come here, of all places.’ She smiled suddenly, so her face became softer and less intense. ‘My name is Joan.’

Bartholomew raised his goblet in a salute. ‘Well, Joan. I wish you the best of luck with what I anticipate will be a celebrated career.’

She grinned, and Bartholomew noticed she had artificially darkened her teeth in an attempt to make herself rougher. She had obviously worked hard on her disguise, concentrating on the smallest of details. He thought about the way she walked, and realised she had even perfected a boyish swagger.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Although your knowing my secret puts me at risk, it is actually a relief to confide in someone. A shared burden is easier to carry.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew sincerely.

‘What burden?’ asked Paxtone, bustling into the room with an amiable smile. ‘Can I help? After all, a burden shared by three will be lighter still than one carried by two.’

‘You can,’ replied Joan without a flicker of hesitation, moving quickly to stand on the stained rug. ‘We are talking about the burden of metaphysics to define the mode of existence and the essence of the separable. It would be very good to hear your thoughts.’

Paxtone was pleased to be asked to expound on such an erudite matter. ‘Where shall we begin?’ he asked. ‘With Aristotle or Grosseteste?’