The Mark Of A Murderer

CHAPTER 7

For the first time in more than two weeks, Bartholomew enjoyed a full night of uninterrupted sleep. He had visited Matilde on his way home from King’s Hall, and had found Rougham sitting up in bed demanding chicken broth. His fever had gone completely, and Bartholomew knew he could not keep him there for more than a day or two. He was already planning how to reach Gonville Hall without being seen by the gossiping Weasenham, whose house he would have to pass, and then it would not be long before he heard rumours about other men with damaged throats – especially the one in the cistern. The dredging was likely to be a public affair, as it involved soldiers from the Castle, and the news would spread quickly. Okehamptone would not feature in the talk, of course, because only Bartholomew and Michael – and the killer – knew what had happened to him.

The following day, Michael took Bartholomew with him when he went to talk to the Sheriff about the search for Eudo and Boltone. Tulyet was frantically busy, organising bands of itinerant labourers to continue scraping the streets clean of ordure, renovate the Great Bridge so it at least did not look dangerous, and paint the livestock pens in the Market Square. It was not only scholars who wanted the Archbishop to be impressed: the townsfolk were determined that he should think well of them, too. As a result, Tulyet had scant resources to search for criminals in the vast wilderness of the Fens, nor had he found time to drain the well. He promised to do both as soon as he could, and Bartholomew and Michael escaped from his house when they heard Dickon making his way towards them, the army of servants who had been detailed to entertain him powerless to prevent the invasion.

Since a heavy spring shower was in full flood, they ducked into St Clement’s Church. They were not the only ones who had been obliged to take shelter, and Michael’s eyes gleamed with predatory anticipation when he saw that the entire party from Oxford, on their way to terce at St Mary the Great, had been caught in the deluge, too. On spotting Michael and Bartholomew, Polmorva promptly aimed for the door, claiming he was going to the Dominican Friary for a theology lecture.

‘I hope you find it as stimulating as the one you attended yesterday,’ said Michael casually.

Polmorva shrugged, knowing he had been caught in a lie, but not really caring. ‘It will be more rewarding than talking to you, Brother. But then, so is wallowing in pig dung.’

‘That is an example of Oxford subtlety, I suppose,’ said Michael, regarding him with disdain. ‘Do not leave, Polmorva. I want to talk to you.’

‘You have no right to order him around,’ objected Wormynghalle indignantly. ‘What do you want, anyway? More excuses for not finding Gonerby’s killer?’

‘You have not been successful with that, either,’ snapped Michael in return. ‘And do not pretend you do not know what I am talking about, Abergavenny. You have been in the King’s Head, asking questions of the locals, when I explicitly told you not to.’

‘What of it?’ demanded Eu. ‘We have businesses waiting at home, and we need to secure our culprit as soon as possible. Besides, you cannot stop free merchants from holding innocent conversations in taverns.’

‘I can prevent you from causing trouble,’ said Michael. ‘Because that is what you do when you ask townsfolk to list those scholars they think are murderers. And how can I hope to find your culprit when you are not honest about his crime? I was obliged to learn for myself that Gonerby was bitten to death. Why did you not tell me the truth?’

‘It was not necessary,’ replied Eu, unrepentant. ‘All you needed to know was that Gonerby was killed by a man who fled to Cambridge.’

‘Then what about Polmorva’s role? Why did you keep that from me, when speaking to an eyewitness might have increased my chances of success?’

‘He saw nothing useful,’ answered Eu. ‘And he asked us not to involve him.’

‘Is that true?’ asked Bartholomew of Spryngheuse, who was peering into the shadows of the aisle with a haunted expression stamped on his sallow features. No one took any notice of the question: the merchants were defending their actions to Michael, while Polmorva listened disdainfully and Duraunt closed his eyes in despair as another argument unfolded.

Spryngheuse spoke in a low voice, so only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Polmorva said Gonerby’s killer might hunt him if he learns there is a living witness to the crime, and he only agreed to come here if the merchants promised to tell no one what he saw. I understand his fear; I am terrified myself.’

‘Here is your cloak,’ said Bartholomew, tugging it from his bag and hoping it was not too badly crumpled. ‘Do you really think someone might harm you? You have been uneasy ever since you arrived.’

‘You would be uneasy if you were accused of starting a riot that left hundreds dead. Some of the victims have powerful friends, and they want revenge. And there is that damned Benedictine! He will not leave me alone – he seems to be everywhere I look. He may even be here, in this church, stalking me.’

Bartholomew strode into the shady aisle and looked around him carefully. ‘There is no one here.’

Tears shone in Spryngheuse’s eyes. ‘I cannot tell you what it is like to be terrified every living moment of the day. I do not sleep; I cannot eat. My only solace is poppy juice, but Duraunt will not give me any more.’

‘So that is why he had it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But he is right: soporifics will not solve your problems. Do you think this Benedictine killed Gonerby? Or is he one of these avenging angels who lost influential friends in the fighting?’

‘I do not know. But my days are numbered, just like poor Chesterfelde’s, although he would never believe it. The Black Monk is playing with me, prolonging my agony. I wish he would just get it over with.’ He stiffened suddenly, and his voice became full of panic. ‘Is that him? Behind the altar?’

‘No, those are John Wormynghalle and Thomas Paxtone, sheltering from the rain because they are carrying library books,’ replied Bartholomew patiently, wondering whether Spryngheuse was becoming deranged; he looked unbalanced, with his frightened eyes and unkempt appearance. ‘They will be fined if one is stained with even the smallest drop of water. You know this: it is the same at Merton.’

‘True. But why are they skulking over there, rather than standing in the nave with the rest of us?’

‘They are not skulking. I imagine they are keeping their distance because Wormynghalle does not want another awkward encounter with his unmannerly namesake.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Spryngheuse, relieved. He rubbed his mouth with shaking fingers, while Bartholomew raised his hand in greeting and the King’s Hall men returned his salute with friendly smiles. ‘But what shall I do? How can I be rid of this spectre that is so determined to drive me from my wits?’

‘Stay with Duraunt,’ suggested Bartholomew, wondering whether Spryngheuse might benefit from a sojourn with Brother Paul and Clippesby at Stourbridge. ‘He will not-’

‘Why would Duraunt protect me? He lost loved friends in the riot, too. But you are a physician. Will you calculate my horoscope and tell me when the Black Monk plans to strike? I have my dates written out, and you can borrow the tanner’s astrolabe . . . no, you cannot. It is missing.’

‘Someone has stolen it?’

‘For its metal, presumably. But it is no great loss, scientifically speaking. Astrolabes are better made of brass than silver, and this one is hopelessly inaccurate – made for display, rather than use.’

‘Did Dodenho reclaim it?’ wondered Bartholomew. ‘It was his to start with.’

Spryngheuse did not understand the question, but nor did he care. ‘Will you help me?’ he asked desperately. ‘I do not think I can stand the anticipation much longer.’

‘I cannot predict when you will die,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘No one can, not even with the best astrolabe in the world.’

‘I visited a wise woman yesterday, and she said it would be soon, but refused to tell me the exact day. She said there is a black shadow following me – Death in the guise of a Benedictine.’

‘She was guessing. You look like a man at the end of his tether, and she used it to make her so-called prediction. Fight this, Spryngheuse. Or leave Cambridge and go to some remote village where you can use a different name and no one will know who you are.’

‘Yes,’ said Spryngheuse wearily. ‘That is what I should do. The only problem is finding the courage to ride off alone, to somewhere the monk will never find me.’

‘Enough!’ roared Michael suddenly. The merchants’ quarrel had reached screeching proportions. ‘You have lied to me and misled me, and nothing can change that. But I do not want to talk about Gonerby today. I want to talk about Okehamptone, who was also foully murdered.’

There was a tense silence, as the party from Oxford digested this information. Bartholomew watched them carefully, but their faces told him nothing he could not have predicted: Spryngheuse, Duraunt and Abergavenny were shocked, Polmorva and Eu were unreadable, and Wormynghalle was incensed, seeing the statement as an accusation that somehow besmirched his personal integrity.

‘Okehamptone died of a fever, Brother,’ said Duraunt eventually. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘I have reconsidered in the light of new evidence,’ replied Michael. ‘So, what have you to say?’

‘There is nothing to say,’ said Polmorva. ‘Okehamptone was hired as the merchants’ scribe, and he died when we arrived in Cambridge. Fever deaths are not uncommon after long journeys.’

‘England’s roads are dangerous, Brother,’ Abergavenny pointed out. ‘It is not just outlaws who present a risk, but sicknesses caused by rotten food, cloudy ale, dangerous animals, filthy beds . . .’

‘Strange whores,’ added Eu. ‘My father always taught me never to romp with harlots I do not know personally. Of course, getting acquainted with them first is not always-’

‘Bad water killed Okehamptone,’ declared Wormynghalle. ‘He drank from streams and wells, when the rest of us took ale. I warned him it was foolish, but he would not listen.’

‘Where did he drink this tainted water?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How long before he died?’

‘He was always doing it,’ replied Wormynghalle. ‘He disliked the flavour of ale, although he adored wine. He gulped a vast quantity of well-water in a village called Girton, and was feverish that same night. It is obvious what killed him.’

‘Not Girton’s well,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘It is good-’

‘Did Okehamptone have enemies?’ asked Michael, before his friend could hold forth on the topic of water.

‘No,’ said Eu, surprised by the question. ‘We have already told you: we hired him because he was likeable. He had a habit of gabbling Latin with Chesterfelde, which was annoying . . .’

‘And he sang,’ added Polmorva. ‘All the time. Now that was really irritating. He was always a tone below where he should have been, and it was hard on the ear.’

‘Anything else? Was he quarrelsome? Aggressive?’ Michael fixed Eu with a stare. ‘Pompous?’

‘He was a scholar-scribe,’ said Abergavenny before Eu could respond. ‘So, of course he was pompous. But, as Eu said, he was a pleasant fellow – not wealthy, but his clothes were of a decent quality and he was clean.’

‘And that cannot always be said of scholars,’ added Eu, determined to have his say. He did not look at anyone, but Bartholomew assumed he was thinking of Tynkell.

‘You say he was murdered,’ said Duraunt when Michael looked indignant. ‘How do you know?’

‘That is a good question,’ said Polmorva. ‘What have you done? Been to the church and dragged the poor man from his coffin?’

Duraunt turned appalled eyes on Bartholomew. ‘Please tell me you did not disturb a man’s mortal remains. I know there are universities in Italy that condone that sort of unchristian behaviour, but I thought English schools were above such barbarism – especially scholars I once taught.’

‘Of course they have been in Okehamptone’s grave,’ said Eu. ‘How else could they have “new evidence”? They cannot solve Chesterfelde’s murder, so they have turned to Okehamptone instead, in an attempt to prevent us from finding Gonerby’s killer – to muddy the waters.’

‘Okehamptone died from an injury to his throat,’ stated Michael baldly.

‘His throat?’ breathed Duraunt, shocked. ‘I did not see anything amiss with his throat.’

‘Did you look?’ Michael pounced.

‘Well, no, but-’

‘Then someone must have invaded Merton Hall during the night and killed him,’ said Polmorva with a shrug, to indicate he considered the matter of scant importance. ‘He was alive when we went to bed, but dead by dawn.’

‘Wormynghalle provided us with a casket of wine the night Okehamptone died,’ recalled Duraunt. ‘He drank some of that, but we all did. Besides, wine does not wound a throat.’

‘It was our first night here, and I felt we should celebrate our safe arrival,’ said Wormynghalle, a little defensively. ‘Duraunt will accept no coins for our board, so I decided to repay his hospitality in time-honoured fashion.’

‘Just like the night Chesterfelde died,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘You provided wine, then, too.’

‘That was claret,’ said Duraunt, as if such a detail made all the difference. ‘We had white wine when Okehamptone was …taken to God.’

‘Did anyone see blood on his body?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There would have been a lot of it.’

‘He was wrapped in a blanket and he wore Wormynghalle’s liripipe for warmth against his fever,’ said Abergavenny thoughtfully. ‘We did not notice blood, because we did not unwrap him. All we did was cover his face and summon the appropriate authorities.’

‘Wormynghalle’s liripipe?’ asked Michael, turning to the tanner with questioning eyes.

‘He did not ask to borrow it,’ said Wormynghalle, a little angrily. ‘But once he had died in it, I did not want it back. I do not wear clothes that have been donned by corpses.’ He gazed at Eu in a way that suggested he would not put such grotesque behaviour past him.

‘And none of you touched the body?’ Michael asked, cutting across Eu’s angry retort. ‘No one anointed it with holy water, dressed it in clean clothes?’

‘We did what was required of us,’ replied Polmorva coolly. ‘No more, but no less, either.’

‘You are a friar,’ said Bartholomew to Duraunt. ‘Surely you gave him last rites?’

‘He was dead,’ replied Duraunt. ‘I know some clerics believe a soul lingers after death, but I am not among them. I feel it is wrong to place holy things near corpses, and Okehamptone had been dead for some time before we found him. He was stiff and cold.’

‘Since the pestilence, we are all wary of cadavers,’ added Wormynghalle. ‘There are rumours that it originated when an earthquake burst open graves, and I, for one, refuse to touch them. We had Okehamptone removed as soon as your other Corpse Examiner had finished his business.’

‘Wormynghalle is right,’ agreed Abergavenny. ‘You cannot be too careful these days, and we were only too happy to let others deal with Okehamptone’s remains. None of us knew him well, but we attended his requiem mass and prayed for his soul. We did all that was expected of us.’

‘Except notice that his throat had been cut,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

* * *

That afternoon, Bartholomew concentrated on his teaching, grateful to relegate the Oxford murders to the back of his mind for a while. Since the plague, physicians had been in desperately short supply, and there was a huge demand for qualified men to fill empty posts. Bartholomew felt it was his duty to train as many students as he could, and was hard-pressed to supervise them all, even when he was not helping Michael. He was more than happy to spend time in Michaelhouse, his apprentice medics perched on wooden benches in front of him, as he vied to make himself heard over the other lessons that were taking place. William was a particular nuisance, with his loud voice and bigoted opinions, and it was invariably a challenge to keep the students’ attention once the Franciscan was in full swing. That morning, William had taken it upon himself to hold forth about the Dominicans again.

‘Dominican,’ he announced in a bellow, as soon as the bell had rung to announce the lectures’ start. Michael and his quiet theologians jumped in alarm at the sudden yell, while Bartholomew’s lively youngsters nudged each other and grinned, anticipating that they were going to be in for a treat. Langelee raised his eyes heavenward, while Wynewyk sighed in irritation.

‘Yesterday, you were read Galen’s theories relating to black bile,’ said Bartholomew, to regain his class’s attention. He spotted a number of guilty glances, and was not pleased to think that some had evidently been less attentive to their studies than they should have been. ‘What are they?’

A pregnant silence greeted his question, and Bartholomew saw several lads bow their heads to write on scraps of parchment. Since he had not yet said anything worthy of being noted, he assumed it was a ruse to avoid catching his eye.

‘Domini. Can,’ bawled William. ‘From the Latin Domini, meaning our Lord, and canna, meaning dog.’ The sinister emphasis he gave to the last noun indicated that he did not consider it a flattering term. Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, not sure whether he had used the wrong Latin intentionally, to test whether his students were paying attention, or whether he had made a mistake. One eager Franciscan immediately raised a hand, and the fact that William ignored him suggested the error was a genuine one, and that he did not want to be side-tracked by linguistic niceties.

‘Flies do not like it,’ said Deynman brightly from the front of Bartholomew’s class.

The physician dragged his attention away from William. ‘What?’

‘Flies do not like black bile,’ repeated Deynman patiently. ‘They think it tastes like the Dead Sea.’

‘And we all know about dogs!’ boomed William in a voice loud enough to make the windows shake. ‘Disgusting creatures!’

‘Lord!’ muttered Langelee, looking up from where he was writing something on a wax tablet for some of the younger scholars.

Bartholomew glared at his best student, Falmeresham, who was laughing in a way that made others smile, too. He could not tell whether the lad was finding William or Deynman more amusing.

‘Galen said most creatures avoid black bile, just as they do saturated brine,’ Bartholomew explained, to correct Deynman’s misinterpretation before the other students could write it down as fact. ‘Excessive salt is poisonous to life, and-’

‘I do not think the sea tastes of black bile,’ said Falmeresham to Deynman, puzzled. ‘I have tasted seawater myself, and it is nothing like it.’

‘You should not drink bile!’ exclaimed Deynman in horror. ‘Did you not listen to the reading yesterday? It is a deadly poison and an excess of it causes all manner of ills. Besides, I referred to the Dead Sea, not any old ocean. You have not tasted the Dead Sea, so you cannot know whether it has the same flavour as black bile or not.’

‘Dogs push their noses into the groins of passers-by and fornicate whenever the mood takes them,’ ranted William, causing Michael’s Benedictines to exchange shocked glances and Wynewyk to falter in his pedantic analysis of Roman law. Bartholomew saw he was losing the attention of his own students again: Deynman frowned as he absorbed the friar’s statement with the same seriousness that he applied to all his lessons, while Falmeresham began to snigger a second time. So did Michael.

‘Name one of the diseases caused by an excess of black bile,’ Bartholomew said quickly.

‘Melancholy,’ said Deynman. Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What is the matter? Am I wrong?’

‘You are right,’ said Bartholomew, trying to regain his composure. He did not add that it was one of the few correct answers Deynman had ever given, and felt a sudden lifting of his spirits. His jubilation was not to last.

‘And they eat the excrement of other animals,’ raved William, pacing back and forth as he worked himself into a frenzy.

‘They do not!’ objected Falmeresham. He kept a hound himself, and was fond of it. ‘Dogs just like the smell.’

‘Pay attention to your own lesson,’ snapped William. ‘We are discussing theology here, not medicine, and it is too lofty a discipline for your feeble mind to comprehend. Besides, I am not talking about dogs, I am talking about Dominicans.’

‘They do not eat excrement, either,’ argued Falmeresham.

‘People are always melancholic when they have an excess of black bile,’ elaborated Deynman, pleased he had his teacher’s approval. Bartholomew struggled to ignore the burgeoning debate between Falmeresham and William, to concentrate on what his student was saying. ‘And that is because they are distressed over the loss of their haemorrhoids.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes. Deynman’s brief foray into accurate understanding had been too good to be true. Once again, certain points had stuck in his mind, but had then rearranged themselves in a way that allowed him to draw some very bizarre conclusions.

‘Dominicans are afflicted with haemorrhoids,’ declared William matter-of-factly, indicating that he was listening to other lectures, too, as he cut across Falmeresham’s spirited defence of dogs and Dominicans alike. ‘It comes from sitting in cold, dark places while they plot their satanic acts. And that is what makes them morose and melancholy.’

‘Galen says that the removal of organs that contain blood – such as veins and haemorrhoids – might cause black bile to get the upper hand in the balance of the humours and bring about melancholy,’ said Falmeresham, deciding that taking issue with William was a lost cause. ‘He is referring to a loss of vessels causing the imbalance; he is not saying patients become depressed because they are sorry to see their haemorrhoids go.’

‘Dominicans are proud of these marks,’ William went on. ‘It is the communal suffering they endure that makes their brotherhood so powerful. After all, what more shameful secret can you share than intimate knowledge of each other’s haemorrhoids?’

‘I cannot teach in here,’ said Bartholomew abruptly, gathering his books and heading for the door, indicating that his students were to follow. ‘I am going to the orchard. It may be cold and it may even rain, but at least I will not have to do battle with this kind of rubbish.’

‘Dominicans such as Clippesby,’ said William loudly, ‘who lounges comfortably in his hospital, while his hapless colleagues are compelled to do his work.’

‘Is that the reason for Clippesby’s absence?’ asked Deynman, wide eyed. ‘Haemorrhoids? I thought it was insanity.’

‘I will come with you, Matthew,’ announced William, preparing to follow the physician outside. ‘It is too hot in here. Besides, I will be able to speak properly in the orchard – I am tired of being forced to whisper all the time.’

Langelee gave a startled gulp of laughter, which encouraged his students to join in, and the hall was soon filled with hoots and guffaws, while William’s face expressed his total bemusement.

‘He really has no idea,’ said Wynewyk to Bartholomew in wonderment. ‘Is he quite normal, do you think? He accuses Clippesby of madness, but there are times when I think he is worse.’

‘You go,’ said Langelee to William, stepping forward to take control and wiping tears from his eyes. ‘You are right, Father. It is stuffy in here, and it is a shame you are obliged to speak softly. Sit in the orchard and expound your theories so they can be properly heard.’

‘They will be heard in Ely,’ said Michael in alarm, as the friar left with his reluctant students in tow. ‘And worse, at the Dominican convent! We will have enraged Black Friars at our gates within an hour, and you know how keen I am to keep the peace until the Visitation is over.’

‘The Dominicans are perfectly aware that William’s opinions do not represent our own,’ said Langelee, relieved to have the Franciscan gone. ‘Besides, would you really object if they silenced him by force? I would not. He is becoming a liability with his stupid ideas and braying voice. Perhaps we should summon a few Dominicans to shut him up – preferably before he has an opportunity to regale the Archbishop with his nasty theories.’

Michael sighed, unable to answer. It was a good deal quieter in the hall without William, and Bartholomew made rapid progress on Galen and black bile. Even Deynman seemed to have improved by the end of the lesson, and the physician was encouraged. He spent the second half of the afternoon teaching a combined class of his own students and Clippesby’s how to calculate the speed of the planets through the sky using different geometrical techniques. Afterwards, leaving the students reeling from their mental exertions, he visited Rougham, and was pleased to find him sleeping peacefully.

Matilde was sleeping peacefully, too, so he crept out of the house so as not to disturb her, knowing that neither patient nor nurse would require his services that night. Rougham would soon be gone from her life and at that point, Bartholomew decided, they would discuss the future, and whether it would be one they might share. He returned to Michaelhouse, read until he started to feel drowsy, then went to bed, where he slept deeply and well.

Michael cornered Langelee the following morning, and confided that he was now seriously worried about the Oxford murders and the damaging effect they might have when the Archbishop arrived in three days’ time. Unlike Bartholomew, he had slept fitfully, and Gonerby, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde had paraded through his mind like lost souls. His beadles informed him that the merchants had been at the Cardinal’s Cap the previous evening, and had befriended a number of locals with their deep purses: the resulting discussion had included the notion that the University might be harbouring a killer. Rougham’s medical students had overheard, and there had been an unpleasant exchange of words before the beadles were able to remove the scholars and fine them for drinking in a tavern.

Langelee was a practical man, ambitious for his University, and he desperately wanted Islip to found his new College in Cambridge. He understood perfectly that three tradesmen hunting a scholar for murder would not make for peaceful relations, and was willing to do whatever was necessary to help. He immediately agreed to release Michael and Bartholomew from their teaching until the Visitation was over. Bartholomew was not pleased to be informed that his classes were to be suspended while he chased killers, but appreciated the now urgent need to solve the case before the Visitation. Langelee ordered the fiscally talented Wynewyk to manipulate the College finances so that two postgraduates could be paid to stand in for the absent masters, and Bartholomew set his students an unreasonable amount of work, hoping they would become alarmed by the number of texts they would eventually need to master and would settle down to some serious study.

First, Bartholomew and Michael decided to see Clippesby at Stourbridge. The physician wanted to assess whether it was he who had attacked him in St Michael’s Church, while Michael was keen to question him about the deaths of Okehamptone and Gonerby. When Langelee urged Bartholomew to bring Clippesby back, sane or otherwise, Michael confided that he was a suspect, although he prudently kept Rougham’s name out of the explanation.

Langelee was appalled. ‘But I was under the impression you had him locked away for his own sake, so he could enjoy a little peace, away from the strains of academic life.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Then I hope you are wrong,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘We all know he is insane, but it has always been a charming kind of madness, not the kind that makes him rip out men’s throats like a wild beast. But it makes sense, I suppose. He has always claimed an affinity with animals, and it is not such a great leap from that to imagining he is one – the kind that likes to savage its prey.’

Michael complained bitterly that there were no horses available for hire – they had all been put to pasture until after the Visitation, so they would not make a mess on the newly cleaned streets – and that he was obliged to waddle the mile or so to the ramshackle collection of huts that comprised the hospital at Stourbridge. His temper did not improve when they were obliged to battle with a powerful headwind that drove rain straight into their faces. It snatched the wide-brimmed hat from his head and deposited it in a boggy meadow that was difficult to traverse. Bartholomew’s boots were full of muddy water by the time they had retrieved it, and Michael’s normally pristine habit was streaked with filth.

‘Damn Clippesby,’ the monk muttered venomously when the thatched roofs of Stourbridge finally came into sight. ‘Why has he so suddenly taken it into his head to chew necks? He has never shown cannibalistic tendencies before.’

‘He may be innocent,’ said Bartholomew, although he could see the monk was unconvinced. ‘But you should put your question to Brother Paul, who has much more experience of insanity than I. He may tell you that this kind of violence is not a factor in Clippesby’s particular condition, and that we should be looking to another madman for our culprit.’

Michael knocked at the hospital’s gate, then looked around with interest as they were ushered inside. He did not visit Stourbridge often, and always forgot how impressed he was by its orderly cleanliness. ‘We shall see Paul first, and then …what in God’s name is he doing?’

‘That patient has acute lethargy, so Paul is attempting to cure her by setting her feet in salt water, ringing bells in her ears, and placing feathers under her nose to make her sneeze.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Will it work?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Such a course of treatment has sound classical antecedents, although I am sure there must be gentler ways to treat her, as yet undiscovered. In a moment, he will put the feather in her throat to induce retching, then he will bleed her, to rid her of excessive humours.’

‘We should talk to him before he starts, then,’ said Michael hastily. ‘I am already covered in mud, and I do not want to be sprayed with blood and vomit, too.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Brother Paul worriedly, when he saw Bartholomew approaching. ‘Does she seem any better to you?’

Bartholomew considered. ‘No. She seems more listless than ever. But intensive humoral therapy is exhausting, so perhaps you should allow her more rest between sessions.’

Paul regarded his charge with sad eyes. ‘We can try, I suppose, since nothing else seems to be working. What about electuaries and embrocations? Can you recommend any that might help?’

Bartholomew shook his head slowly. ‘Ailments of the mind are a complete mystery to me, and all my training and experience seem to count for nothing when I meet cases like these. You are far wiser about them than I, and you should trust what your own instincts tell you to do.’

‘My instincts are failing me dismally at the moment.’ Paul nodded at the drooping woman who sat disconsolately, with her legs in a bucket and a down scarf around her neck. ‘I make no headway with her, while Clippesby is entirely beyond my skills. I misjudge him at every turn.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘What is the matter? Has he harmed someone? Or himself?’

‘No, no,’ said Paul quickly. ‘Nothing like that. But he seems recovered one moment, and mad the next. I cannot make him out. I trust him completely to help with the others – he is patient and gentle with even the most vicious and ungrateful of them – but he seems unable to follow orders about his own well-being. And he will insist on quitting the hospital, when he knows he must stay. He left us again on Tuesday evening – he was gone when I looked in his room after dusk, but was back for prime on Wednesday morning. I beg him not to wander off in the dark, but he cannot seem to help himself.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance: so, it could have been Clippesby who had attacked Bartholomew with the spade. Nervously, Bartholomew wondered what else he might have done.

‘Did you ask where he had been?’ asked Michael.

‘He does not know,’ said Paul tiredly. ‘He is not lying – he really does have no idea. There is not much more I can do for him, Matt, other than offer company, a little recreational work and a safe haven – which will not be very safe if he continues to escape.’

‘How does he get out?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you locked his door at night, and his window has mullions that are impossible to squeeze through.’

‘I forgot to bar the door,’ said Paul apologetically. ‘I was busy. Ned Tucker was dying and Clippesby slipped my mind. It was my fault, but I am sorry he took advantage of my lapse. Speak to him, and explain again that he is here for his own good.’

While Paul turned his attention to the unresponsive woman, Bartholomew and Michael looked for Clippesby. He was not in the peaceful little chapel, saying prayers for Ned Tucker like many other inmates, nor was he in the kitchen helping to prepare the next meal. Next to the church was a large dormitory that contained the beds of those who required constant care; the fitter residents slept in smaller buildings, some of which could be locked to ensure they did not escape to harm themselves or others. It was in the hall that they found Clippesby, reading to a patient who was in the last stages of a disease that had ravaged his face. He raised his finger to his lips when Bartholomew and Michael entered, and continued speaking. It was only when the man slept that Clippesby left him.

He looked healthy and cheerful, and his eyes had lost the wild expression that had so unnerved Bartholomew the day after Rougham had been attacked. He had combed his hair, so it lay flat and even across his tonsured pate, his face was shaved to a rosy pinkness, and his habit was scrupulously clean. It was difficult to see him as a deranged lunatic who bit the necks of his victims and wielded spades in dark churches. He smiled at Bartholomew, then clasped Michael’s hand.

‘It is good to see Michaelhouse men,’ he said, leading them to his own room so that their voices would not disturb the sleeping leper. ‘It is dull here, with no one of any intelligence to speak to. Paul is always too busy or too tired, and most of the others are beyond caring about decent conversation.’

‘I am sorry you have to be here,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. ‘But Paul tells me you made a bid for freedom on Tuesday night and were gone until dawn the following day. Why?’

Clippesby shrugged. ‘Why do you think? I have been here fifteen days now, and I am bored. I went for a walk, although I cannot tell you where. I just followed a mouse.’

‘A mouse,’ said Michael flatly.

‘Well, a field mouse, naturally,’ elaborated Clippesby. ‘But you would know that, of course. One is hardly likely to find a dormouse with time on her hands at this time of year!’ He laughed, to indicate he considered the notion preposterous.

‘Did this mouse eventually lead you to Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘To St Michael’s?’

‘I do not recall,’ replied Clippesby. ‘I was too absorbed in what she had to tell me.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘It was nothing to do with the gnawing of throats, was it? Or the wielding of spades?’

‘Hardly!’ said Clippesby, startled. ‘Her conversation was rather more genteel, and involved a discussion between St Benedict and his holy sister St Scholastica three days before her death.’

‘Scholastica?’ echoed Michael immediately. ‘Did this mouse mention riots, by any chance? On Scholastica’s feast day in Oxford?’

‘She did, but those are of scant importance when compared to the dialogue between the two mystics. I am sure you are aware, Brother, that no one knows exactly what was discussed the night Scholastica summoned a great storm to keep her brother from returning to his monastery – so he would stay with her. But the mouse knew.’

‘This mouse must be a considerable age,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘This alleged conversation is said to have taken place eight hundred years ago.’

‘She did not hear it herself,’ said Clippesby, irritated by the lack of understanding. ‘It was witnessed by an ancestor, and the information has been passed through the family from century to century. The same sort of thing happens with humans. Generations of first-born Clippesbys have been called John, to name but one example.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘What did St Benedict and his sister talk about that stormy night? What they were going to have for breakfast?’

‘That would no doubt be your choice of subject,’ replied Clippesby crisply. ‘But pious folk are not obsessed with such earthly matters. Benedict and Scholastica talked about the power of creation, and how one life is so small and insignificant compared to the living universe.’

‘Well, that very much depends on whose life we are talking about,’ said Michael, smarting over the accusation that he was venally minded. ‘For example, I would not consider Matt’s unimportant, and someone tried to take it before dawn on Wednesday morning.’

‘Really?’ asked Clippesby, his eyes wide. ‘How terrible! But you are unharmed, so whoever tried to rob you was unsuccessful.’

‘How do you know it was a robber?’

‘Why else would anyone attack him?’

‘Have you encountered two men called Boltone and Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby was not going to admit to being in St Michael’s at the time of the attack – if he even knew. But the mention of robbers had brought to mind the dishonest residents of Merton Hall.

‘The Merton Hall chickens detest Boltone,’ replied Clippesby. ‘They say he has been cheating his masters for years. Meanwhile, Edwardus Rex, the dog with whom Yolande de Blaston lives, tells me that Eudo may have stolen the silver statue I gave to Matilde.’

Michael nodded. ‘It seems he took it when he visited her to get a remedy for women’s pains – for the wife he does not have.’

‘Many men do that,’ said Clippesby. ‘Matilde is good and generous, and people trust her. You should marry her, Matt, before someone else steals her heart.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, aware that Clippesby was regarding him expectantly. He hesitated, on the verge of confiding his decision to make her his wife, but then Clippesby’s attention was snatched by a flock of pigeons landing in the yard, and the moment was lost.

‘Do your chickens know anything about an astrolabe owned by Geoffrey Dodenho?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘It was sold to someone at Merton Hall.’

Clippesby shook his head. ‘No, but the King’s Hall rats told me that Dodenho claimed it had been stolen by another Fellow – probably by his room-mate, who is called Wolf – but that he suddenly went quiet about it. They think he later found it again, but because he had made such a fuss about its “theft”, he was obliged to sell it – so he would not have to apologise for making unfounded accusations. The rats say that is why Wolf ran away: he did not like being considered a felon.’

‘When you say “King’s Hall rats” are you referring to small furry rodents or to men in tabards?’ asked Michael cautiously.

‘Rodents, of course,’ said Clippesby, annoyed. ‘I do not insult rats by likening them to people.’

‘Do they or the chickens know anything about Eudo or Boltone?’ asked Michael. He sounded uncomfortable, unsure of how to deal with the strange realities of Clippesby’s world.

Clippesby scratched his head. ‘I do not think so, but I can ask. The problem with hens is that they are not always interested in the same things as us, and one needs to question them very carefully to determine whether or not they know anything of relevance. It is quite an art.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I have encountered similar problems myself. But I need to ask you more questions, if you have no objection. Matt and I have been investigating a very complex case, and you may be able to help us.’

Clippesby nodded sombrely. ‘Of course. I am always willing to be of service to you, although you should be aware that a desire to help is not the same as being able to help. But ask your questions, and we shall see. As the hedgehogs of Peterhouse always say, if you do not ask, you will not receive.’

‘Right.’ Michael cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Where did you go in February, when you abandoned your teaching for ten days without permission?’

‘You have already fined me for that,’ said Clippesby, immediately defensive. ‘You cannot punish me twice for the same offence. Besides, I told you what happened: an owl came and told me my father was ill, so I went without delay to visit him in Norfolk.’

‘Norfolk?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Oxford?’

Clippesby grimaced. ‘Certainly not. I dislike Oxford, and would never go there willingly.’

‘Was your father unwell?’

‘No,’ admitted Clippesby. ‘The owl must have confused him with someone else.’

‘Then what about your more recent absences? Where were you on the eve of Ascension Day?’

‘That was the night Rougham was attacked and I saved his life,’ replied Clippesby resentfully. ‘I wish I had not bothered, because then I would not be incarcerated here. However, I do not recall exactly where else I was that evening. You had plied me with too much wine earlier, Brother, and my wits were addled.’

‘That had nothing to do with the wine,’ muttered Michael. ‘Then what about last Saturday?’

‘You think I had something to do with the murder at Merton Hall – the man with the cut wrist?’ asked Clippesby. He saw Michael’s surprise that he should know about Chesterfelde, and smiled enigmatically. ‘The chickens mentioned what had happened – I told you I am friendly with them. But I did not kill anyone, Brother. I do not waste time with people when there are animals to talk to. What they say is worth hearing, unlike the vicious ramblings of men.’ Abruptly he turned his attention to Bartholomew, who was simultaneously disconcerted and startled by the penetrating stare. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping he did not. He had lost interest in the discussion, and his thoughts had turned to Matilde. In the dusty gloom of Clippesby’s chamber he had reached a decision, and he knew with absolute certainty that it was the right one. He would marry Matilde. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, and his Fellowship was a small price to pay for the honour of spending the rest of his life with such a woman. His mind now irrevocably made up, he felt strangely sanguine about the University and its various mysteries. It occurred to him that he should probably confide his plans to Matilde before resigning and making arrangements to secure them a house, and determined to do so at the first opportunity. He did not countenance the appalling possibility that she might decline his offer.

Clippesby frowned slightly, noting the distant look in his colleague’s eyes. ‘I know what you think about me,’ he said, correcting himself.

‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew pleasantly, ready to embrace the whole world in his new-found happiness and serenity.

‘You order me to stay here, because you say folk do not understand my kinship with animals and you are afraid someone may hurt me. But the reality is that you are one of those people. You may not wish me harm, but you no more understand my relationship with the natural world than they do. You are just like them, only you hide your opinions behind a veil of concern.’

‘He is worried about you,’ said Michael gently, while Bartholomew gazed at him in dismay, uncomfortably aware that he was right. His brief surge of bliss vanished, leaving him with the sense that he had let Clippesby down. He did not understand him, and was probably no better than others in that respect – worse, even, because his inability to physic him had led to his incarceration.

‘And you want me here because you are afraid my idiosyncrasies might reflect badly on Michaelhouse when the Archbishop comes,’ said Clippesby, rounding on the monk. ‘You are afraid I will say or do something that will make us a laughing stock. After all, what College wants a Fellow whose behaviour is so unlike anyone else’s?’

‘You are right,’ agreed Michael bluntly. ‘I was relieved when Matt suggested you come here for a few days. The Visitation is important, and I cannot risk anything or anyone damaging our prospects.’

Clippesby laughed harshly. ‘Honesty! Well, at least that is refreshing. But you need to open your mind, Brother. Just because I do not distil my knowledge from books does not make me insane.’

‘Talking to animals is not something normal men do,’ said Michael with an unrepentant shrug.

‘Saint Francis did it,’ countered Clippesby. ‘And no one accused him of madness.’

‘He was kind to animals – he did not ask their advice and repeat their philosophical theories. There is a difference. But this debate is going nowhere, because we will never agree.’

‘No,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘We will not. So, what will you do? Lock me here until I conform to your way of thinking and admit I am wrong? Send me to some remote parish, where I will never see an Archbishop’s Visitation? Or slit my throat and be rid of the embarrassment permanently?’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, appalled he should think they would consider such dire options.

‘No?’ asked Clippesby sharply. ‘No what? No to murder or exile, or no to letting me return to my duties at Michaelhouse?’

‘No to the latter, and that is for certain,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Two men, possibly more, have died from peculiar wounds and Rougham was seriously injured. He says he saw you attack him, so you are currently at the top of my list of suspects. I want you to remain here until you are either exonerated or we have positive proof of your guilt. Only then will we discuss what to do next.’

‘I have not killed anyone,’ reiterated Clippesby angrily. ‘I cannot imagine why you insist on believing Rougham over me, when you know what the man is like. He lies. Have I ever lied to you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Michael. ‘But I never know when to believe you. Sometimes you speak gibberish, while other times you make perfect sense.’

‘I will stay,’ said Clippesby, gesturing to his bed. ‘But you will find I have nothing to do with these crimes. When you do – and only then – we shall talk sensibly, and discuss how best to live with each other’s oddities.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Some of us are more odd than others, so will have to make bigger concessions.’

Clippesby smiled. ‘I am willing to be flexible, Brother. However, it is not your gross eccentricity I was referring to. It is Father William’s.’

‘Now there we do agree. I just have one more thing to ask. When you talked about us keeping you here or killing you, why did you select a slit throat as the means of execution?’

‘Because that is what I saw the wolf trying to do to Rougham,’ replied Clippesby. ‘And then there was the man in Merton Hall’s cistern.’

‘What man?’ asked Bartholomew, an uneasy feeling beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach.

‘The one who died near the well,’ elaborated Clippesby patiently. ‘There was him a week or so ago, and there was Chesterfelde on Saturday night.’

‘Chesterfelde?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the sudden stream of information. ‘You saw what happened to him? But you just said you did not.’

‘No, I told you I did not kill him,’ corrected Clippesby pedantically. ‘However, I did not see what happened, because I could not bring myself to watch. You know how I deplore violence. The hens were braver: they saw his wrist cut, resulting in his death. The first man was different, though, because it was his throat that was gashed, not his arm.’

‘The first man,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You mean Okehamptone?’

‘No, Okehamptone died when the wolf had him – the chickens told me about it. Chickens do not like wolves. I am talking about the man who was put in the cistern after Ascension Day.’

‘He is talking about the body you found when you were rescuing me,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, although the physician did not need him to state the obvious. ‘We have four victims with throat injuries now: Gonerby, Okehamptone, the cistern man and Rougham.’

‘But I cannot say for certain whether all four of those were claimed by the wolf,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just the two I was watching when the wolf found them – Rougham and the man in the cistern – and Okehamptone, because the chickens told me about him. I know nothing about your Gonerby, while Chesterfelde was most certainly not killed by the wolf.’

‘This wolf,’ said Bartholomew carefully. ‘Have you spoken to him at all?’

‘I would have nothing to say to a creature like that. I do not associate with rough beasts that kill for pleasure, only with those who can help me understand the natural universe.’

‘Then what about the chickens?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did they talk to it?’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Brother! I have already told you that hens dislike wolves.’

‘Hopefully, Tulyet will retrieve this other body today,’ said Michael. ‘Then we might have some answers – some rational answers.’ He shot Clippesby a reproachful glance.

‘It happened more than a week ago now,’ mused Clippesby, lost in reverie. ‘I went to the towpath, where there are always birds ready to talk – moorhens, geese and ducks. I met the hens, and we were appalled when our philosophical debate was interrupted by murder.’

‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Michael with a sigh, valiantly striving to distil truth from the confused jumble of information that Clippesby was spouting. ‘Exactly.’

‘I saw nothing, as I told you already. But the chickens saw the man’s throat bitten out.’

Bartholomew and Michael argued all the way back to Michaelhouse. Bartholomew thought Clippesby had picked up snippets of gossip when he had escaped to wander in the town, while Michael claimed he knew too much for his knowledge to have been innocently obtained. He believed Clippesby’s inexplicable absences from Stourbridge were proof that he was deranged enough to kill and remember nothing later, except for the snatches of information he attributed to his animal friends.

‘You know he is good at eavesdropping,’ Bartholomew insisted. ‘He always has been, ever since he arrived in Cambridge. He sits very still for long periods of time in odd places. He may well have witnessed these murders.’

‘I cannot believe you trust him. He is demented! You are a physician – you do not need me to tell you this. He cannot distinguish between reality and fiction, and he genuinely believes animals talk to him. He is the chickens and the rats who saw these murders, and he is also the wolf that committed them.’

‘He cannot be both.’

‘Then how is he aware of the man in the cistern? The only folk who know about him are you, me and Tulyet. And the killer, of course.’

‘Not true. All sorts of people will have heard about him by now: Dick’s soldiers, the inhabitants of Merton Hall who came to haul us out. And what about Eudo and Boltone? They knew about the corpse, or they would not have attacked us when we approached the place where it was hidden.’

Michael declined to be diverted. ‘Clippesby might not understand what he has done, but he is our man. I am becoming increasingly certain of it.’

‘Well, I am not. He seems so rational at times.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I am completely out of my depth with him, Michael. Most of the time he is gentle and innocently fascinated by the natural world, no matter how bizarre his methods of gathering information about it.’

‘I see we will not agree until we have more evidence.’ Michael sighed. ‘I am grateful Paul has agreed to keep him under lock and key until we tell him otherwise. It is better this way – for him as well as for us. I do not want him racing up the High Street and biting the Archbishop of Canterbury’s throat, while the rest of us are all busily trying to impress the man.’

Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the step Michael had insisted they take, which entailed securing Clippesby in his cell and not allowing him out to help with the other patients. Clippesby said nothing, but his eyes held an immense hurt that had cut Bartholomew to the quick. He only hoped the case would be resolved quickly, and the Dominican could be either freed or convicted. He was certain either would be preferable to the friar than an indefinite prison sentence. He promised to bring scrolls, to help him pass his long hours of solitude and, on a whim, offered to find a cat or a puppy to keep him company. Clippesby declined, claiming he would not wish imprisonment on any living thing, and that the hell visited on him for communing with nature was his to bear alone, and not to be inflicted on other innocent creatures.

Physician and monk were still quarrelling when they met Tulyet. The Sheriff was striding along the High Street with some of his men, all of whom were dirty, wet and scowling, and Bartholomew supposed they had just finished searching the cistern. Tulyet did not seem overly pleased to see his friends, and Bartholomew sensed something was wrong.

‘Have you confiscated that bow from Dickon yet?’ asked Michael, either not noticing Tulyet’s cool manner or not caring. ‘If not, I would like to borrow him for a while. There are a number of people in this town I would not mind him dispatching.’

‘Do not jest about such things,’ said Tulyet curtly. ‘There are several folk he dislikes, and my wife is terrified he may try to shoot them, just as he did Eudo.’

‘Dickon disliked Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was not aware they even knew each other.’

‘Dickon likes to look over our boundary wall, but Eudo took exception, and words were exchanged. So were stones at one point. I did not know about this until today, because my wife was afraid I would be angry. She says Eudo came to complain about it.’

‘Dickon lobbed rocks at him?’ Michael was amused.

‘They threw them at each other, apparently,’ said Tulyet. ‘But Dickon’s were better aimed.’

‘I am not surprised Eudo objected to a pair of curious eyes, given what has been happening around his cistern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Clippesby claims to have witnessed a murder there a week ago, and says that was where Chesterfelde received his fatal injury, too. But Dickon saved us with his timely arrow, and I shall always be grateful to him.’

Tulyet gave a tight smile. ‘That is the only spark of light in this nasty affair: Dickon rescued two dear friends.’

‘Twice,’ said Michael. ‘Once when he shot Eudo and drove him away, and again when he fetched you to pull us out of the well. Has he told you about anything else he saw? I know Matt thinks Clippesby is a credible witness, who will impress any jury with his clarity and common sense, but I would sooner trust Dickon.’

‘You could never believe anything Clippesby says,’ said Tulyet, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane himself. ‘He told me he was a monkey last month.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, troubled.

‘He claims the similarity between men and apes means God used the same mould when He created them. Have you ever heard such nonsense? But I have questioned Dickon again and again about Eudo, and I still have no clear idea of what the boy saw. I suppose it is not surprising: he is very young and has no proper concept of time.’

‘Then what did your dredging reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is this man with the cut throat?’

‘No one,’ said Tulyet. ‘We emptied the pit to the bottom, and nothing was in it except mud. Either you were mistaken, Matt, or someone was there before us and retrieved the body first. There is no corpse in the well, and no indication that there ever has been.’