The Mark of a Murderer

CHAPTER 11

It was well past dawn by the time Bartholomew had secured Clippesby in his new hiding place, and he was late for the Monday morning mass. He noticed that the town was waiting in eager anticipation for the Archbishop, and even the beggars had made an attempt to spruce themselves up. He hurried to St Michael’s Church and walked briskly to his place in the chancel. Michael was officiating, but took his mind off his sacred duties long enough to indicate he wanted to speak to the physician. Then he delighted the students and bemused the Fellows by speeding through the rest of the ceremony at a rate that was far from devout.

‘I wish all our priests would do it like that,’ remarked Langelee, as he led the procession out of the church and back to Michaelhouse. ‘It would save us a good deal of wasted time.’

‘Praying is not wasted time,’ said William, shocked, despite the fact that his masses were usually even faster. He jerked his head at the listening students. ‘And watch what you say when there are impressionable minds listening.’

‘Our impressionable minds might be disturbed by witnessing the Master’s hankering for Agatha,’ said Deynman sanctimoniously. ‘The news of that is all over the University.’

‘The Master does not hanker after her any longer,’ said William, who had heard the rumours that Langelee had shifted his affections to Alyce Weasenham. ‘That honour now falls to Suttone.’ He guffawed loudly, to indicate he was making a joke.

‘Suttone,’ mused Deynman, and Bartholomew saw he had just witnessed the birth of another falsehood that would soon be circulating around the town and paraded as truth.

Michael snatched Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him out of the procession. ‘Where have you been? You were needed last night, and there was no trace of you. Have you been with a patient?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully. ‘Why? What has happened?’

‘Matilde’s house was invaded – by the killer, we think.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in horror, a stab of panic making his breath catch painfully in his throat. ‘She is not …? Is she …?’

‘She is unharmed,’ replied Michael. ‘Frightened and angry, but unharmed.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief. ‘I am going to marry her, Michael,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I am going to ask her as soon as Rougham has gone and we can be alone.’

Michael smiled. ‘Good. It is time you acted on this, and I am sure Matilde will think so, too.’

‘Do you think she will have me?’

‘Probably,’ replied Michael carelessly. ‘It will mean the end of your Fellowship, but I intend to order Tynkell to keep you as our Corpse Examiner. I doubt Rougham will be clamouring for your dismissal, given what you have done for him of late.’ He smiled affectionately. ‘I hope you will be very happy together – and that you will spare the occasional cup of wine for an old friend.’

‘Always,’ said Bartholomew. They were silent for a moment, as each considered the enormity of what Bartholomew was about to do. He would have to start hunting for patients who could pay him, and would have no time for his treatise on fevers. Meanwhile, Michael thought about how different life would be for him, too, and realised how much he had come to rely on the physician’s insights and help in all manner of ways.

‘Did Matilde see who broke into her house?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his mind away from the future. ‘And what about Rougham? Did the killer come to complete what he started two weeks ago?’

‘I think that is exactly what he was doing,’ said Michael soberly. ‘It happened at midnight precisely, because Matilde heard handbells jangling inside All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. Rougham escaped unharmed, too, although the shock has not been good for him.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘The wolf was busy last night. He must have gone directly from Matilde’s house to Stourbridge.’

‘The wolf?’ echoed Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head, impatient with himself. ‘That is what Clippesby calls him. I am sorry, Brother. He used it so often last night that it rubbed off on me.’

‘You went to see Clippesby?’ asked Michael warily. ‘In the middle of the night? With a killer on the loose, who may decide you are to be next?’

Bartholomew described what had happened, leaving out only the fact that he had hidden Clippesby in a place only he and Agatha knew. Michael immediately jumped to the conclusion that Clippesby had been afraid the Oxford merchants would hang him, and had fled the area completely. Bartholomew said nothing to disabuse him of the notion.

‘Damn! The Archbishop is due this afternoon, and we shall have to welcome him knowing there is a killer stalking our streets with a metal dentition. I hope to God this wolf does not have designs on Islip, because, if he strikes, our University will be suppressed for certain. I know Canterbury became famous after the murder of Thomas à Becket, but I do not want Cambridge to be known for killing archbishops, too. We do not have a cathedral.’

‘I do not think the wolf wants Islip,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? You think this murder and mayhem just before the Visitation is coincidence? Well, you are wrong. I believe he is following a very specific agenda, which includes making Cambridge appear every bit as unstable and riotous as Oxford. Thus, he may well strike at the Archbishop. But we should go to see Matilde. She is worried about you.’

‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that Michael’s good intentions regarding his diet had already floundered once in the face of his appetite.

‘Yes,’ said Michael, taking his arm. ‘I want Rougham back at Gonville before any more of the day passes – for all our sakes.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘Matilde was sleeping on a bench in her parlour, while Rougham had the bed in the upper chamber. She fled upstairs when the wolf burst into her house, and together she and Rougham barred the door and managed to keep him at bay. He tried to smoke them out by lighting a fire under the door, but you had insisted that bowls of water be left upstairs lest Rougham’s fever returned, and they were able to douse the flames before they did any serious harm.’

Bartholomew set a cracking pace along the slowly lightening streets. He left Michael far behind, puffing, wheezing and complaining that such frenzied activities were not good for a man with an empty stomach. When Bartholomew reached Matilde’s house, he hammered furiously on her door, not caring that Weasenham’s window shutters immediately eased open. She opened it, a little angrily, to see who was waking her neighbours with his racket, and he shoved his way inside and took her by the shoulders, looking her up and down in concern.

‘I am all right,’ she said, smiling reassuringly.

‘And so am I,’ said Rougham wryly, aware that his colleague had not so much as glanced in his direction. ‘Together, we managed to repel whoever burst in last night. We were fortunate Matilde is a light sleeper, or who knows what might have happened?’

‘Doctor Rougham tore a sheet into pieces, and was going to lower me on to the roof of the house next door,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew. Her face was pale; glancing up the stairs, Bartholomew saw black marks where the killer had set his blaze. There were deep grooves in the door, too, as if he had used an axe. ‘We were becoming desperate.’

‘And who would have lowered you to safety?’ asked Bartholomew of Rougham.

‘I was going to fetch the de Blaston family,’ said Matilde weakly. ‘That was the plan we agreed on as we struggled to quench the flames: I would run for help, and return to rescue Master Rougham.’

‘Yes,’ said Rougham softly, and Bartholomew saw he had not expected her to be in time. He had been ready to sacrifice himself to save the woman he had come so suddenly to respect and admire.

‘Weasenham,’ said Bartholomew heavily, thinking about what must have happened. ‘He saw you in Matilde’s window the other day, and he must have chatted about it to his customers – one of whom is the killer, and who decided to come and finish what he had started.’

‘Probably,’ said Rougham tiredly. ‘I did not see the fellow’s face last night, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that it was not Clippesby – he moved in a completely different way – slower and less graceful. Do you have any other ideas, now my main suspect is exonerated?’

‘None at all,’ lied Bartholomew, refusing to entertain the possibility that Duraunt could be the culprit. ‘But I know more about the teeth that were used on you now. They are metal, devised by an Oxford scholar many years ago, to help edentulous people to eat.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Rougham, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘False teeth. But metal will be hard on ancient gums, and what will fit one man will not match another. They would have to be individually tailored. How were they made? Were there two separate pieces for upper and lower fangs, or were they linked?’

‘Linked,’ said Bartholomew. He remembered them vividly. ‘With a hinge on either side.’

‘Did they work?’

‘Not very well. But these have been adapted for use as a killing weapon, because I am sure the originals were not honed so sharp. Someone came after me with them last night – after he realised he would have no luck here.’ He glanced at Matilde. ‘The thick material of that liripipe saved me.’

‘My recollection of the night I was bitten is hazy, as you know,’ said Rougham thoughtfully. ‘I remember falling over and I certainly remember the agony, but the attack itself is a blur until I saw Clippesby standing over me. But your words have sparked a dormant memory. I did see a metal object during the fracas, just before the searing pain in my shoulder. It may well have been these teeth, and that would explain why they did me so much damage.’

Bartholomew thought about his shredded hood. ‘Excrement was smeared on them, too.’

‘To be certain of causing an infection, should the injury not prove instantly fatal,’ mused Rougham, understanding at once. ‘What does this mean? That our killer is a physician, because he knows how to make a wound turn rotten? It is not you or me, so we are left with Paxtone or Lynton. Lynton is too old and lazy for such activities, which leaves…’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Paxtone.’

‘He is at King’s Hall,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘So was Hamecotes.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, appalled that another person he liked should be accused. ‘It is probably someone from Oxford. Polmorva, who owned the teeth. Or…’ He trailed off.

‘Or who?’ asked Matilde. ‘Duraunt? Your kindly old teacher, who drinks heavily in taverns and who lies about his love affair with soporifics? The man who seems rather too friendly with that nasty Polmorva, and who has a will of iron under that oh-so-gentle exterior?’

‘Poppy juice and wine is a powerful combination,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘They could change him from a kindly ancient into something savage.’

Bartholomew recalled the demonic strength of the hands around his throat, and the grim determination of the wolf to rip his skin with the filth-smeared teeth. ‘He is not strong enough.’

‘Not even when intoxicated?’ pressed Rougham. ‘Your experience as a physician will have taught you that even the meekest of men can turn into raging lions when they swallow dangerous remedies.’

‘I know, but…’ said Bartholomew, feeling exhaustion wash over him as his conviction in Duraunt’s innocence began to waver, ‘…but I do not believe it of him.’

Rougham laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in the first gesture of friendship he had ever offered, while Matilde took his hand and raised it to her lips. He looked into her eyes and was suddenly overwhelmed with the utter conviction that it was the right time to ask her to marry him, whether Rougham was present or no.

‘Matilde,’ he began. ‘Will you …?’

‘Lord!’ puffed Michael, gasping for breath in the doorway. ‘I am exhausted after that run!’

Michael waddled across the room and flopped on to a bench, where he sat fanning himself with his loose sleeve. Matilde released Bartholomew’s hand and went to fetch ale to help him recover, while Rougham lowered himself on a bench, wincing at the pain in his injured shoulder.

‘Well?’ Michael rasped. ‘What have you deduced? Have you solved the case? Who is the wolf? You had better hurry with your analysis, because Islip will arrive in a matter of hours and we do not have time to waste. Who might have a reason to kill you, Rougham? We know it was not Clippesby, so who else could it be?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Rougham. ‘And believe me, I have thought about little else these last few days. I have not lost any patients recently, so it cannot be a grieving relative. I am on reasonable terms with my colleagues at Gonville – we have our disagreements, but none are serious. I confine my amorous adventures to Yolande de Blaston, and I always pay handsomely for the privilege. And I owe no one any money. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm me.’

‘What about your student, William of Lee?’ wheezed Michael. ‘He thinks you are a hard taskmaster, and says you are never satisfied with him, no matter how hard he tries.’

Rougham sighed. ‘Some students respond to encouragement, and others need criticism to produce their best work. Lee is one of the latter. If I do not monitor him constantly, he grows lax. But I do not ride him hard enough to make him want to kill me.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, aware that students were sometimes delicate creatures, whose feelings were easily hurt. Insults were often felt more deeply in the young than in older, wiser people, who had learned that they could not please everyone all of the time. But did Lee have the intelligence to kill and hide his tracks? And why would he have been in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, when the whole business seemed to have started, not to mention managing to lay his hands on the metal teeth? Lee as the wolf did not make sense, so Bartholomew eliminated him from his list of suspects, resigned to the fact that, once again, it comprised Polmorva, Dodenho and some of his colleagues from King’s Hall. And Duraunt.

‘What about Boltone?’ suggested Rougham, racking his brains. ‘He knows Oxford, since he is employed by Merton College, and he makes journeys there to present his accounts. I know, because he is my patient, and he has told me. He may have found these teeth and killed Gonerby.’

‘We asked if he had been there recently, and he said he had not,’ said Michael.

Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Well, he is hardly likely to admit to a February visit, if he had murdered someone. And besides, he is not an honest man. You know that for yourselves, because Duraunt is here to inspect his dubious accounting – and do not forget that he was caught virtually red-handed with that treasure hoard in the cistern.’

‘But if Boltone is the wolf, why has he started his murderous spree now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not years ago? And what is his motive?’

‘You can ask him that when he is caught,’ said Rougham. ‘And he will be caught, because he will not go far. Cambridge is his home and I do not see him leaving to start a new life elsewhere. He and Eudo will be in the Fens together, waiting until the hue and cry has died down. Then they will return, and set about proving their “innocence”.’

‘But why would they harm you?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Are you saying Boltone hates his physician enough to make two attempts on his life?’

‘I do not know,’ said Rougham wearily. ‘Perhaps it was because I once wrote, in a letter to my friend Henry Okehamptone, that Boltone was a dishonest sort of fellow and that Merton College would be wise to examine his accounting.’

Michael stared at him. ‘You did that? Then he does have a motive to kill you: revenge.’

‘It was more than a year ago,’ objected Rougham, ‘and I thought no more about it until today.’

‘We must move you as soon as we can,’ said Bartholomew, aware that time was passing. ‘You are not safe here. We can discuss Boltone later, when you are home.’

Rougham nodded weakly. ‘I have imposed myself on Matilde long enough. I cannot walk far, but I think I can reach Weasenham’s shop.’

‘Why there?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘I have a plan,’ said Rougham.

‘Will you tell us what it is?’ asked Michael, when the Gonville man said no more. ‘I would sooner know what you have in mind before we help.’

‘I shall decline your assistance,’ said Rougham softly. ‘You have done more than enough for me already, and I refuse to have this wolf stalking you, when it is me he is after.’

‘It is too late for that,’ said Michael. ‘He almost had Matt last night.’

Rougham sighed with genuine regret. ‘Quite. And I do not want you taking more risks on my behalf. So, I will walk – alone – to Weasenham’s shop, where I will ask him to send one of his lads for my College’s cart. I will ensure he knows I am going to Gonville, because then he will tell everyone I am home, and the wolf will not bother Matilde again.’

Bartholomew shot her an agonised look, afraid that Rougham moving out of her house might not render her that much safer.

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘The wolf is selective. From what Matilde told me last night, he could easily have hurt her before going after Rougham. Mercy was a mistake on his part, because it allowed her to dart up the stairs and warn him. Think about Clippesby, too. The killer could have had him with ease – he was a tethered goat at Stourbridge – but he was only interested in you.’

‘You cannot walk alone,’ said Bartholomew to Rougham. ‘You are too weak – and just imagine how it will look if you are found lying in the gutter outside Matilde’s house.’

‘Not as bad as it would have done last week,’ said Rougham. He smiled, in a rare display of humour. ‘They have been cleaned since then.’

‘We will escort you to Weasenham’s premises,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Now, before there are too many people around. But we should hurry – folk are already beginning to gather in the Market Square, hoping Islip and his entourage will arrive early.’

Michael heaved himself up from the bench. ‘And afterwards, I shall have words with Duraunt and Polmorva. I intend to demand the truth about these teeth.’

Matilde fetched an old cloak of Bartholomew’s, which she arranged so that it concealed Rougham’s face, and helped the Gonville physician to the door. Michael offered to go ahead and create a diversion so that no one would notice when Rougham entered the shop, or the direction from which he had come. The monk grinned, and informed them that he intended to lean on a set of shelves, claiming to feel faint, and bring the whole lot tumbling down around him. He was certain the prospect of ink leaking over valuable parchment would be more than enough to capture the gossiping stationer’s attention – and that of any customers who might be present.

‘It is too early for trade,’ said Rougham. ‘Especially today, when everyone will be thinking about what to wear for the Visitation.’

Bartholomew waited until he saw the monk disappear inside the shop, then looked in both directions to ensure they were not being watched. There was no movement from Weasenham’s house, so he assumed Michael’s diversion was already working. He hesitated, loath to leave Matilde when he felt his place was at her side, in order to protect her from whoever had tried to smoke his way inside her bedchamber. It took considerable willpower to step outside.

‘Answer the door only to Michael or me,’ he instructed anxiously. ‘And stay indoors until we come to tell you it is safe.’

‘Do not even answer it to Yolande,’ Rougham added, equally unhappy at abandoning her. ‘She is innocent of this vile affair, but she may be used to gain access to you. Trust no one.’

It was good advice, and Bartholomew urged Matilde to heed it. She was a headstrong and determined lady, who would object to being a prisoner in her own home, and he suspected she would not skulk inside for long. He helped Rougham into the street. The Gonville Fellow stood unsteadily for a moment, face turned towards the pale blue sky and breathing deeply of the first fresh air he had taken in almost three weeks. Then he bowed to Matilde, thanked her for her kindness, and began to walk as fast as he could, aiming to put as much distance between him and her as possible before he was seen. But his scant reserves of energy were soon spent, and it was not long before he was obliged to lean heavily on Bartholomew. They were forced to stop altogether when the effort made him dizzy, but eventually they reached the shop, where he stumbled gratefully over the threshold.

‘I have just returned from my home in Norfolk,’ he announced in a husky voice, trying his best to speak loudly and ensure that all in the room would hear him. ‘The journey was long and arduous, and I have an ague. I do not think I can walk any farther, so perhaps you would be kind enough to send for Gonville’s cart, Master Weasenham.’

‘I do not think there is any need for wagons,’ came a soft voice from the shadows. ‘You are not going anywhere today, Doctor Rougham.’

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. He was sitting on the floor holding a hand to his bloody nose, and Bartholomew saw he had been put there by a punch. ‘I was going to warn you, but they anticipated me before I could call out.’

‘They have loaded weapons,’ came a small, frightened voice from a stool behind the table. It was Weasenham, looking terrified as he was held in place by a powerful hand on his shoulder.

‘Eudo!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. He saw someone else, too, moving behind him. He whirled around just in time to see Boltone push the door shut with his foot, and drop the bar across it, securing it from within. Both he and Eudo carried crossbows.

‘I do not know why you are surprised to see us,’ said Eudo in his penetrating voice. ‘You must have known we would not stand by and let the University defame our good names. We have been obliged to skulk in the Fens these last few days, not knowing how to help ourselves. But now we have a plan.’

‘You did the damage yourselves,’ said Michael, probing his swollen nose with tentative fingers. ‘You are the ones who have been stealing from people and falsifying manor records.’

‘We have not stolen anything,’ said Eudo indignantly. ‘And eccentricities of accounting hardly count as theft, either! Every clerk from here to Jerusalem does that. Is that not so, Boltone?’

Boltone nodded. ‘We have been doing well for twenty years, so why should Merton choose now to move against us? Someone must have told them – lied to them – about what we do.’

‘Well, it was not us,’ said Michael, climbing to his feet and not looking at Rougham. ‘And if you do not mind, we are busy today. The Archbishop is due soon, and I must be there to greet him.’

‘He will have to manage without you,’ said Eudo coldly. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Weasenham said no one ever comes to his shop this early – especially not today, when everyone is preoccupied with Islip.’

‘They were helping me,’ said Rougham, collapsing white-faced on to a bench. ‘They met me near the Barnwell Gate, and offered to assist me on the final leg of my journey from Norfolk.’

‘But I saw you in Matilde’s house yesterday…’ began Weasenham immediately.

‘No, you did not,’ said Rougham with a conviction that Bartholomew could only admire. ‘That must have been someone else, because I have only just arrived. I was afraid I would miss the Visitation, but I am just in time.’

‘You will not be making the Archbishop’s acquaintance, either,’ said Eudo. ‘I have reason to believe it was you who wrote to Okehamptone, telling tales about us, so you are the reason we are in this vile predicament.’

‘Did you kill Okehamptone, Eudo?’ asked Michael, before Rougham could admit to anything. ‘Did you cut his throat because he believed you were dishonest?’

‘We have not killed anyone,’ said Eudo firmly. He indicated Bartholomew with a nod of his head. ‘Not even him, unfortunately.’

‘It was you who attacked me with the spade?’ asked Bartholomew. The weaving, cloaked figure in St Michael’s Church had been about the right size and shape for the tenant.

‘I should have gone through with it,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘But you made me panic with all that yelling, and then the monk came. I shoved you in the cupboard, when I should have finished the job.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What have I done to you? We barely know each other.’

‘Enough chatter,’ said Boltone impatiently, seeing Eudo ready to oblige with an explanation. He stepped towards the stationer and brandished his bow. ‘We are short of time, so do not sit there listening to talk that does not concern you. Write.’

Weasenham flinched at the anger in his voice, and turned his attention to the parchment that lay in front of him. It was covered in the stationer’s small, neat script.

‘I want to go home,’ said Rougham feebly. He looked dreadful, with a sheen of sweat coating his pallid face. ‘And I need my colleagues to help me. I do not care what you are doing here.’ He attempted to stand, but Eudo strode towards him with a furious glower and he sank down again.

‘He is ill,’ said Bartholomew, moving instinctively to stand between his patient and the felons. He had a sudden inspiration. ‘It is a contagion, contracted on his journey from Norfolk. Possibly a fatal one. You do not want him in here with you.’

‘A contagion is the least of our worries,’ said Boltone bitterly, although Eudo looked alarmed. ‘But we will not catch it if he keeps well away from us. You two can sit next to him, and prevent him from coughing in our direction.’

‘I will stay here, thank you,’ said Michael, leaning against the shelves with his hand still clapped to his bruised face. He had no intention of going where they could all be conveniently covered with one weapon. ‘A man with a broken nose is vulnerable to contagions.’

Boltone should have insisted on obedience, but instead he turned on Eudo, and Bartholomew saw they were incompetent criminals. ‘I told you this was a bad idea, but you insisted it would work. Now what are we going to do?’

‘We will kill them before we leave. It is not our fault: they brought it on themselves.’

‘No,’ said Boltone, alarmed. ‘Not murder – especially of a monk! It will not matter that we are innocent of theft, if we then commit an even more serious crime.’

‘Listen to him, Eudo,’ recommended Michael. ‘You say you have not killed anyone so far, so it would be foolish to begin now. Let Rougham go, and we can devise a solution–’

‘We cannot be merciful. We have too much to lose.’ Eudo took a step towards Weasenham and his handsome features creased into a scowl. ‘Write! Or I will chop off your hands.’

‘I am going as fast as I can,’ bleated Weasenham. ‘I have been scribing all night, and my fingers are so cramped I can barely move them.’

‘You are preparing proclamations,’ said Bartholomew, craning his neck to see what Weasenham was doing. There was already a substantial pile of sheets on the table, at least half in a different hand, and he supposed Boltone too had been writing before he had been obliged to abandon clerkly activities to point a crossbow at Michael.

‘I told you to keep the door locked,’ grumbled Boltone, rounding on Eudo a second time. ‘But you would insist on looking outside every few moments to see whether Islip had arrived, even though it is still far too early. It is your fault we are in this mess. I would have devised a way to explain away Chesterfelde’s blood when the Senior Proctor came prying, but oh, no! You have to start a fight and we end up accused of killing Hamecotes.’

‘Write!’ shouted Eudo at Weasenham, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s accusations.

Bartholomew thought fast, rearranging facts and conclusions in the light of what he had just heard. Rougham had been wrong to think either Eudo or Boltone was the wolf. They were exactly what they appeared: cornered petty felons. They knew something about Chesterfelde’s death, but nothing about the others, because the wolf was clever and this pair were not. They had mishandled the situation at the cistern, and now they had allowed themselves to become trapped in a position where they had four hostages to manage.

‘You can still escape,’ he said in a reasonable voice. ‘Abandon what you are doing and leave. You will find another property to run, given the number left vacant by the plague, and you can begin your lives again somewhere else.’

‘Why should we?’ demanded Eudo. ‘I will not be driven away by lies. This is my home.’

‘They are not lies,’ said Michael. ‘You have stolen – from people like Matilde, and from Merton – and you have been found out. Personally, I would rather see you hang, but my colleague is offering you a chance. Take it, before you end up with a rope around your necks.’

‘No!’ shouted Eudo. ‘None of it is true – except for the accounting, and that was Boltone. I have stolen nothing! I am the victim of a University plot, which blames me for its own crimes. But I have a plan. I will exonerate myself, and everything will return to normal.’

‘These will not exonerate you,’ said Michael, picking up one of the proclamations. ‘Lies can be written just as easily as they can be spoken, and putting pen to parchment does not produce a truth.’

‘You see?’ said Boltone. ‘I told you it would not work.’

‘People will believe what is written,’ insisted Eudo stubbornly. ‘Especially clerks. They will read what I dictated, and see that the real villains are scholars – Polmorva, Dodenho and men like them.’

‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge regularly,’ said Bartholomew, turning over what he had deduced. ‘I think it was he who helped keep your deception from Merton for so long – for a price, I imagine. What was it? A third of the profits?’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Boltone, aghast. ‘He said he never told anyone.’

Bartholomew did not want to admit that it had been a guess. ‘You two and Chesterfelde met last Saturday night, to discuss what to do about Duraunt’s inspection. You formulated a plan to evade exposure, and to demonstrate the depth of your commitment, you decided to sign it with blood.’

‘To mingle blood,’ corrected Boltone, glowering at Eudo. ‘As a sign of undying brotherhood. It was a stupid idea.’

‘A stupid idea devised by men in their cups,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Eudo had been drinking at the King’s Head, while Chesterfelde was drunk on wine provided by the merchants.’

‘The mixing of blood was symbolic of our loyalty,’ protested Eudo. ‘Knights do it all the time.’

‘But Chesterfelde cut himself too deeply – or you did it for him.’ Bartholomew considered. ‘No, he did it himself. The wound was on his left wrist, and I know he was right-handed because I saw writing calluses on his fingers: he used his right hand to slice his left arm. Blood pumped from him as he stood by the cistern, and none of you could stop it.’

‘We did not know how,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘We tried holding the limb in the air, we hunted for leeches in the cistern, but nothing worked. Meanwhile, Tulyet’s brat was watching everything.’

‘Dickon,’ mused Michael. ‘So, it was Chesterfelde’s death he saw – the splashing he mentioned was you searching for leeches, not the sound of Hamecotes’s corpse being dropped down the well. He identified you as the killer, but was vague about the victim.’

‘He shot me later,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘Evil little tyke. I will put an end to his violent antics when I am reinstated as tenant of Merton Hall. He will not spy on me again.’

‘I was not drunk,’ said Boltone. ‘Well, not very, and the brat cannot have me blamed for what happened to Chesterfelde.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael. ‘Exactly.’

‘Eudo frightened Chesterfelde with his fury over Duraunt’s inspection. It made him cut himself over-vigorously – to demonstrate the extent of his kinship with us.’

‘He should not have used such a large dagger,’ said Eudo, sounding more indignant than sorry. ‘It was unwieldy and he was clumsy from wine. He should have used my little knife instead.’

‘And then you tried to make the accident look like murder, by dumping his body in the hall with the dagger in his back,’ surmised Michael. ‘His Oxford companions were all drunk, too, so they slept through the racket you must have made.’

‘Except Polmorva,’ said Eudo. ‘The others were all snoring but he saw what we were doing. He promised to say nothing, in return for certain favours.’

‘It was Eudo’s idea,’ said Boltone bitterly, before Michael could ask what favours the sly scholar had demanded. ‘He said if we left Chesterfelde’s body in their midst, the Oxford men would be blamed for his death, and we would not.’

‘Your only crimes are dishonesty and stupidity,’ said the monk, disgusted with them both. ‘You are innocent of murder, and it was just unfortunate coincidence that someone used your cistern as a grave for Hamecotes, not knowing it was where you kept your hoard.’

‘We have no hoard,’ insisted Eudo. ‘I keep telling you: we had nothing to do with that.’

‘You stole Matilde’s silver dog.’

‘I visited her for a remedy – my woman will not lie with me as long as she has female pains; I gave Alyce the cure, but she still only has eyes for Ralph de Langelee – but I stole nothing from Matilde.’

Michael glanced at Weasenham, who sat scratching out his proclamations and weeping softly. ‘Go,’ the monk said to Eudo and Boltone, pointing to the door. ‘Leave Cambridge while you can.’

‘I will not, and I will kill anyone who tries to make me,’ Eudo shouted, brandishing the crossbow in a way that made his prisoners flinch in alarm. ‘No one saw you coming here – I watched you sneaking down the lane myself – and no one saw us, either. Therefore, no one will know it was us who killed you.’ He looked pleased with his logic.

‘Weasenham will know,’ Michael pointed out. He rested a heavy forearm on one of the shelves and gave it a nudge to test its stability. Bartholomew saw what he intended to do, and started to edge slowly along the bench towards him.

‘He will die, too,’ said Eudo coldly. ‘He has almost finished what he is writing, and we have no further need of his services.’

‘No!’ shrieked Weasenham. ‘You said I would live if I did what you asked. You promised!’

‘That was before they arrived,’ snapped Eudo. ‘I cannot release a witness to their deaths.’

‘I can keep secrets!’ howled Weasenham. ‘I have kept the one about Bartholomew visiting Matilde. Ask Brother Michael. I have not breathed a word about that to anyone.’

‘Finish that document, and let us bring an end to this,’ said Eudo, unbarring the door to glance outside. Bartholomew saw the streets were becoming busy, as people flocked towards the Market Square, and there was an atmosphere of excitement in the rattle of many footsteps. He eased closer towards the shelves, gradually slipping down the slick surface of the bench, and trying not to let Eudo see what he was doing. ‘We have one of those proclamations for every scholar, priest and clerk in the town, and a copy is sure to reach the Archbishop. He will recognise the truth and will take our case before the King.’

‘He will not,’ said Michael scornfully. ‘And it will be obvious who killed Weasenham, since this parchment – covered in his writing – is to be distributed throughout the town. It is a ludicrous plan.’

‘You see?’ demanded Boltone of Eudo. ‘I told you it would not work.’

‘It would have done, if these scholars had not spoiled it,’ snarled Eudo. A thought occurred to him, and a wicked smile crossed his face. ‘We will shoot them first, then set the shop alight. All anyone will find is charred corpses, and no one will ever know what really happened.’

‘But murder, Eudo!’ whispered Boltone. ‘And the Proctor is a monk, a man of God.’

‘We have no choice. If you let them live, you will hang. Do you want to die just because you are too frightened to loose a judicious arrow against men who put us in this situation in the first place?’

Boltone was obviously unhappy, but the increasing clamour in the street and its sense of urgency was beginning to rob him of his common sense. He nodded reluctant agreement.

‘Good,’ said Eudo, flexing his fingers around his bow. ‘Then we must hurry, because we are running out of time. You shoot Bartholomew and I will kill the monk. Then we will reload and dispatch Weasenham and Rougham, who are weaker and less likely to stop us. Ready?’

As one, he and Boltone raised their weapons and pointed them at the scholars.

‘Now!’ shouted Michael, flinging himself backwards as hard as he could. Bartholomew did likewise, at the same instant that Boltone released his quarrel. The physician heard a snap and something hit his chest before he fell. For a moment, he felt nothing, then there was a dull throb. When he glanced down, his clothes were stained red, and he realised he had been hit.

Meanwhile, his and Michael’s combined weight had been more than the shelves could support. With a tearing groan, they came away from their moorings and toppled, sending their contents skittering across the room. Bottles smashed, pens tapped on the wooden floor, and parchments soared from their neat piles like birds, covering the shop with a carpet of cream. Eudo began to reload, regarding first Michael and then Bartholomew with an expression of hatred, while Boltone was momentarily stunned by a box that had struck his head.

‘Michael!’ Bartholomew gasped, knowing the monk could disarm Eudo if he moved fast enough. It took a moment or two to wind a crossbow.

But Michael wallowed with agonising helplessness among the inkwells and scrolls, and seemed unable to climb to his feet. Bartholomew was sharply reminded of Brother Thomas’s prediction that the monk’s obesity would bring about his friend’s death, and was appalled it should come true quite so soon. He saw Boltone shake his head to clear it, then scramble towards the weapon he had dropped. The physician managed to reach it first, struggling to keep hold of it while the bailiff tried to snatch it back.

‘Michael!’ he yelled again, watching Eudo load his weapon with all the time in the world. But Michael only rolled this way and that, like a landed fish among the sea of parchment.

Weasenham dived under a table with a petrified squeak, and it was left to Rougham to pick up a stone inkwell and lob it with his failing strength. It hit Eudo square in the face, and felled him as cleanly as any arrow. Boltone gazed at his fallen colleague in horrified disbelief, then abandoned his skirmish with Bartholomew to dart across the room, wrench open the door and flee as fast as his legs could carry him. Weasenham emerged from under the table to grab Eudo’s weapon, but the man was deeply insensible, and posed no further threat. Rougham appealed to Bartholomew.

‘I am feeling most unwell. Will you mix me a physic?’

‘Never mind you!’ shouted Michael furiously, finally upright. ‘What about Matt? He has been shot and is drenched in blood.’

‘Ink,’ said Rougham dismissively. ‘Weasenham threw it. He was actually aiming at Eudo and, since he missed his intended target, I was obliged to hurl a pot myself. I always say that if you want a job done properly, you should do it yourself, and this is just a case in point.’

‘But I saw the bolt fly loose,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the mess on his best tabard in dismay. He doubted it could be washed out.

‘It is lodged in the ceiling,’ said Weasenham, pointing with an unsteady finger. ‘Eudo is no better a marksman than I am, it seems.’

‘Tend me, please, Bartholomew,’ begged Rougham. ‘Before Weasenham really does have a corpse in his shop.’

The stationer, relieved and grateful that he had escaped with his life, offered his own bed to the invalid, which was accepted with poor grace – Rougham claimed he did not want to return to Gonville a few houses at a time. But he slept readily enough, and Bartholomew thought he should be able to complete his journey the following day. Meanwhile, Michael went to summon beadles to collect Eudo before the tenant regained his senses. He found Tulyet first, and they returned within moments. The Sheriff, clad in his finest clothes, stepped carefully through the rainbow spillages that adorned Weasenham’s once-pristine floor.

‘So,’ he said, watching his men haul Eudo away. ‘You deliver me a pair of thieves, but no killer.’

‘A pair of thieves?’ asked Michael. ‘You caught Boltone?’

‘He ran right into my arms. He was covered in blood – just like you, Matt. Are you hurt?’

‘My best red ink,’ said Weasenham sadly, gazing at Bartholomew’s tabard as though he was contemplating wringing it out to see what he could salvage. ‘What a waste! You will not get it off, either, and Agatha will be furious. Do not tell her it happened in my shop. I do not want her storming in and waving her sword at my throat.’

‘How do you know she has a sword?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have seen it. She thinks she can slip past my house unseen when she goes to her lover, but she cannot. I know the way she walks, even when she wears Langelee’s cloak.’

‘My cloak?’ came a familiar voice from the doorway. It was Michaelhouse’s Master, and Alyce Weasenham was behind him. ‘Why would Agatha wear my cloak?’

‘Where have you been?’ Weasenham demanded of Alyce. ‘You said you would only be gone an hour, and you have been away all night.’

Langelee had the grace to blush, but Alyce began a convoluted tale about being caught in a spring shower, taking shelter in a church, and then waking to find herself locked in.

‘I have only just been released,’ she concluded defiantly, while Tulyet raised laconic eyebrows and Michael sniggered.

‘It is true,’ said Langelee, gallantly stepping in to defend her virtue. ‘We did indeed pass the…’ He trailed off as Alyce shot him a withering glance.

‘We?’ asked Weasenham immediately. ‘You mean you were with her?’

‘Fortunately, yes,’ said Langelee, brazening it out. ‘I was able to reassure her that she would be reunited with you at first light, or she may have become hysterical.’

Alyce did not look like the kind of person who would lose her wits about being shut in a church, but no one said anything, and there was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then Langelee muttered something about being wanted at Michaelhouse, and escaped while he was still able.

‘I needed you last night, Alyce,’ said Weasenham reproachfully. ‘I have been held hostage for hours, and I kept expecting you to come and rescue me. In the end Michael, Bartholomew and Rougham obliged, although they made a dreadful mess as they did so.’

Alyce gazed around her. ‘This will not impress the Archbishop, and the word is that he is less than a mile outside the town. He will be here at any moment.’

‘That is true,’ said Tulyet, moving towards the door. ‘And we still have a great deal to do. The Visitation will have to take place with this killer on the loose, because I do not think Eudo and Boltone are our culprits. They are not clever enough.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘They were with Chesterfelde when he died, and tried to have the Oxford men blamed for it, but they did not kill Hamecotes, Gonerby or Okehamptone, and nor did they frighten Spryngheuse into taking his own life. Our list of suspects is growing shorter.’

‘Who is still on it?’ asked Tulyet.

‘Polmorva, Duraunt and the merchants,’ said Michael. ‘And some of the Fellows from King’s Hall – Norton, Wolf and Dodenho, whose silver astrolabe ended up in Eudo’s hoard.’

‘I have no idea what happened to that,’ mused Weasenham. ‘It was a pretty thing, so I put it in my chest upstairs, but…’ He realised what he had just admitted in front of the Sheriff and the Senior Proctor, and the colour drained from his face yet again. Bartholomew felt sorry for him: he was not having a good morning.

‘You swore you had handed all your findings to me,’ said Tulyet sternly. ‘Now you confess that you kept certain articles?’

‘Only the astrolabe,’ protested Weasenham, horrified at himself. ‘And only briefly – I do not have it now. Alyce thinks one of our customers must have made off with it.’

Tulyet grimaced in disgust, then turned to Michael. ‘Who else have you eliminated from your enquiries, other than Eudo and Boltone?’

‘Clippesby. He was with Matt when one attack took place, so he is in the clear.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Brother Paul sent me a message saying he escaped last night.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Michael.

‘Well, you should find him as soon as possible,’ advised Tulyet. ‘Personally, I believe we are not looking for a single killer, but a man who uses others to help him. It is the only way he could have perpetrated all these evil deeds, and you may find Clippesby is his accomplice.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew, although he was aware of an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. Surely, Clippesby could not be guilty after all they had been through?

‘You had better be sure,’ warned Tulyet. ‘This killer is ruthless and cold blooded, and he knows exactly what he wants. I suspect he manipulates people and, if you have hidden Clippesby somewhere, thinking to protect him, you may find yourselves in grave danger.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Michael, emerging from the stationer’s shop and looking to where folk lined the High Street, as if anticipating that the King himself might ride down it. He watched Tulyet’s men trying to move them back, but it was difficult when people were so determined to secure themselves a good view; they jostled and shoved, and in places they blocked the road completely. Tulyet’s expression was anxious, and Bartholomew sensed something in the air that had not been there earlier: an aura of menace. ‘I wish we had the wolf locked up in the Castle, not Eudo and Boltone. They are nothing.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Tulyet, scanning one of the proclamations. ‘If they had succeeded in distributing these, the Archbishop might have experienced at first hand how uneasy this town can be. They have accused the University of the most despicable of acts, and scholars would have fought to protect their honour. These would have caused a riot for certain.’

Michael disagreed. ‘No one would fight over this rubbish: it is too ridiculous. For example, it claims Chancellor Tynkell is a demon, because he has an aversion to water.’

‘I have always wondered why he never washes,’ said Tulyet dryly. ‘Now all is clear.’

‘And it says King’s Hall is full of men who cannot read,’ said Michael. ‘They would not fight over that, because it is true.’

‘It also says the Senior Proctor eats seven meals a day at six different Colleges,’ said Bartholomew, taking the parchment from Tulyet and reading it properly for the first time. He started to laugh.

‘Scurrilous lies,’ snapped Michael, trying to snatch it from him.

‘But here is something that is neither amusing nor untrue,’ said Bartholomew, pulling it back, so it tore. He glanced at Michael with a troubled expression, his jocundity evaporating. ‘It says that the University is harbouring a killer, and it is only a matter of time before more Cambridge men fall victim to his lust for blood.’

‘More Cambridge men?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘I thought the only people to have died so far were from Oxford: Gonerby, Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse.’

‘And Hamecotes,’ said Michael. ‘From King’s Hall.’

‘But no one should know about him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Certainly not Eudo and Boltone, who have been hiding in the Fens these last few days. So, either someone from King’s Hall told them about Hamecotes’s fate, or the murderer did.’

‘No scholar from King’s Hall would spread this tale,’ said Michael. ‘Which leaves the killer.’

‘Are you sure they are different?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Tulyet was angry at the notion. ‘Damn these scholars! They had better not do anything untoward when Islip is here, not after all the trouble the town has taken to impress the man.’

‘No one will produce a set of teeth and attack an Archbishop in broad daylight,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘So far, the killer has only claimed his victims during the hours of darkness. We will need to be on our guard tonight, but not now.’

‘Not true,’ argued Tulyet, unappeased. ‘Gonerby was murdered in the day, when the streets were awash with rioting people, and there was a witness who saw everything.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the witness is Polmorva, who may have lied about the timing of the murder – and who may even be the wolf himself.’

Michael nodded. ‘It would explain why the wolf tried to kill you, too. Polmorva would slit your throat in an instant, if he thought he could get away with it. He hates you with a passion.’

‘I want this clear in my mind,’ said Tulyet. ‘Chesterfelde’s death was an accident, and has nothing to do with “the wolf ”, as you so prosaically call him. We can forget Eudo and Boltone, because all they did was steal from Merton and try to kill you with a spade. But we still have Gonerby, killed in Oxford, and Hamecotes and Okehamptone, killed here. The wolf made an attempt to disguise both deaths – Okehamptone’s by making sure Matt went nowhere near the corpse; Hamecotes’s by hiding his body and sending false messages to friends claiming he was buying books.’

‘Hamecotes may have sent at least one of those himself,’ said Michael. ‘His room-mate Wormynghalle seems certain they were penned by his own hand.’

‘Oxford and King’s Hall,’ said Tulyet. ‘The wolf retrieved Hamecotes from an Oxford-owned cistern and took the corpse to King’s Hall. It is not easy to wander in and out of Colleges, with porters on guard and territorial students all over the place, so I suspect that Matt is right: whoever put him there was a King’s Hall man.’

‘You are right,’ agreed Bartholomew, thinking hard. ‘And only a King’s Hall scholar would know which of the outbuildings was abandoned, too.’

‘But he did not,’ said Michael. ‘He selected one used by Dodenho, and his secret was out.’

‘Does this exonerate Dodenho, then?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He found the body and told his colleagues about it. If he were the wolf, then he would have kept quiet about it.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael. ‘He could not expect to keep a corpse hidden there for ever, especially with summer on the way. He would know it was only a matter of time before someone noticed an odd smell and went to investigate.’

‘And several people knew the shed was used exclusively by him, so it would not have been long before fingers were pointed,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘You are right. Dodenho could be covering his tracks by “finding” the body.’

‘There is something odd about him,’ said Tulyet. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he is the wolf. His crude attempts at scholarship are all anyone ever remembers about him, but perhaps he is more clever than we suspect, and he feigns stupidity because he thinks it will hide his true character. But other members of King’s Hall are equally suspect: Paxtone, because he is a physician – they travel a lot and bloody throats do not bother them; Warden Powys because he is Welsh and the Welsh are often abused in Oxford – he may have wanted to avenge the honour of his countrymen; Norton because he is no more a scholar than I am, and has no business being here.’

‘And Wormynghalle because he is too scholarly,’ suggested Michael. ‘Wolf, because he is missing and no one knows where he is.’

They glanced up as distant trumpets sounded, and all along the High Street people began to speak a little louder. The Archbishop was drawing closer.

‘Wolf,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It was Clippesby who started referring to the killer as “the wolf”. I assumed he was talking about an animal, but I wonder if he was actually referring to the name.’

Michael sighed. ‘Damn Clippesby and his obtuse way of seeing things! Of course it is Wolf. It makes sense now: Wolf is a King’s Hall man, who travelled to Oxford, and who has been missing since the first of the Cambridge murders.’

‘We have no time to discuss this now,’ said Tulyet, beginning to move away. ‘The Archbishop is almost here, and I must be there to greet him. You, too, Brother. And Matt should change his tabard before someone sees it and thinks either he has stabbed someone or has indulged in particularly gruesome surgery. Either may result in a skirmish, and that is something we must avoid at all costs.’

They hurried along the High Street, Michael walking in front of Bartholomew in an attempt to disguise the mess of red on his chest. However, even easing politely through the crowd drew hostile glances. Bartholomew was shoved in the back as he passed a tinker, and was only saved from falling because Michael was in the way. The physician heard bitter comments about Oxford men bringing murderous and dishonest ways to Cambridge, and supposed the rumour-mongers had made it known that he had once studied in Oxford.

When they parted at the High Street’s junction with St Michael’s Lane, Tulyet stopped and called back to them. ‘I have just remembered something – I should have mentioned it before, but all this noise distracted me. When he was arrested, Boltone blamed Eudo for the dishonest accounting and for Chesterfelde. He also claimed someone else told Eudo what to write in the proclamations.’

‘Who?’ asked Michael. ‘Wolf?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘He just said it was someone from King’s Hall.’

Bartholomew ran down the lane towards his College, Michael puffing at his side. The porter opened the door, and Bartholomew saw that he, Michael and Tulyet were not the only ones to detect the atmosphere of unease among the townsfolk: Langelee also knew that large gatherings of people might result in trouble, and had taken the appropriate precautions. The gates were secured with heavy bars, and barrels had been filled with water and stood in rows near the hall, in case of fire. All the porters and servants were armed – and silently resentful that they were obliged to remain inside, when they could have been on the High Street admiring the pageantry.

‘We will change into our finery and look for Wolf among the crowds,’ panted Michael. ‘I will not let him harm the Archbishop and damage my University.’

‘I do not like the aura of unrest that pervades the town this morning,’ said Langelee, coming to speak to them. ‘Do you think this killer will attack Islip in order to thwart our chances of gaining his favour? Is he an Oxford man?’

‘He probably has connections to the place,’ said Michael, hurrying to don his best habit. ‘I do not understand why he has committed these crimes, but I intend to stop him from harming anyone else. We can discuss his motives tomorrow, when he is safely inside the Castle prison.’

Bartholomew hauled off his ink-stained tabard and called for Agatha to give him his spare. It was in the process of being laundered, and he hoped she had not been as tardy with it as she had with Langelee’s cloak. She hurried from the kitchens to hand it to him. He pulled it over his head and straightened it impatiently, while Langelee regarded him in dismay.

‘You are not going to meet Islip in that, are you? He will think we are paupers!’

‘Surely that is a good thing?’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to admit he did not own another. ‘If he sees we have no money, he might give us some.’

‘Interesting point,’ said Langelee, looking down at his own ceremonial robes, then glancing at Michael, who was resplendent in a cloak of soft black wool. ‘I shall have to change. It is a pity, because Alyce said I cut rather a fine figure in this, but it cannot be helped, and it is all in a good cause.’

‘He knows,’ warned Michael, before the Master could leave. ‘Weasenham knows about you and Alyce.’

‘Not much escapes his attention,’ agreed Agatha, not entirely pleasantly.

‘True,’ conceded Langelee with a sigh. ‘I knew our happiness could not last for ever. But now is not the time to discuss it. I hear Clippesby has escaped.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘But we do not need to concern ourselves about him, and especially not today. We are fairly certain our killer is Wolf of King’s Hall. Clippesby may only be his accomplice.’

There was another blast of trumpets, much closer this time, and Bartholomew could hear the rhythmic rattle of drums. The Archbishop was obviously intent on putting on a spectacle for the people of Cambridge, with music and a procession of handsomely attired churchmen and their scribes. He was sure it would be remembered for years to come, and only hoped the memories would be pleasant ones, and not of a murder that had taken place during it.

‘Really?’ asked Langelee. ‘Wolf did go missing at about the right time, but I understood it was because he had a pox.’

‘Only according to Weasenham,’ said Agatha. ‘But Clippesby has been talking about wolves these last three weeks, and he is no fool. I thought he meant animals, but he must have referred to Wolf the man.’

‘How do you know?’ pounced Michael. ‘You have not seen him since he was sent to Stourbridge.’

Agatha regarded him coolly. ‘I visited him. I know he sounds deranged, but to my mind he is far more sane than the rest of you most of the time. I need a word, Matthew. In private.’ She gave him a monstrous wink that immediately secured Michael’s keen attention.

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘Do you need a consultation?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, giving another indiscreet leer. ‘But not the kind you are thinking about. I want to tell you something about a mutual friend.’

‘Clippesby?’ he asked in alarm. ‘What has he done?’

‘He has gone out. He–’

‘Gone out from where?’ demanded Michael. He gazed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘You have not been telling me the truth, my friend! You said he ran away after he saved you from the wolf, but that is not true, is it? You helped him to hide. And where safer than Michaelhouse, where there are strong walls and a sturdy gate to protect him?’

‘I did not lie,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘You jumped to conclusions.’

‘But you did not correct me. Are you insane? What if the rumour spreads that Clippesby is the killer, and people discover he is here? We will be in flames in an instant, and not even the Archbishop of Canterbury will be able to save us.’

‘Do not exaggerate,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘No one but Tulyet knows Clippesby was a suspect, and Rougham will say nothing. Clippesby is in more danger from others than he is to them.’

‘He is right,’ declared Agatha. ‘And he promised to stay in Matthew’s room, with the College cat for company.’

‘I do not like the use of the past tense here,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘He said he had been thinking about your mystery all morning, and he had reached a conclusion. He was wildly excited when I took him larded oatcakes a short while ago, and was talking about the wolf.’

‘Then Tulyet was right after all,’ said Michael. ‘Clippesby has always known more about these killings than he should have done, and now it is clear why: he is the wolf’s accomplice. Tulyet said the wolf could not have managed alone and needed help, and now I see who provided it: Clippesby, who is too addled to know the difference between good men and bad.’

‘He knows the difference,’ said Agatha angrily. ‘He knows it better than you.’

‘You have done him a grave disservice by helping him escape, madam,’ said Michael, rounding on her. ‘Your actions may lead him to commit another crime – or one he will be blamed for, whether he is responsible or not. And Michaelhouse may be forced to bear that responsibility with him.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Langelee. ‘There goes our benefaction from Islip.’

‘He said he left something in your chamber, Matthew,’ said Agatha, treating Michael to a glower for his accusations. ‘He said that you would understand what it was, and that you should go to Merton Hall as soon as possible.’

‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Michael furiously. ‘And today, of all days!’

Bartholomew darted towards his room, heart pounding as he wondered what the Master of Music and Astronomy could have left for him that would induce him to go to Merton Hall. It did not bode well for Clippesby’s innocence. He wrenched open his door, then stopped in mute horror, so abruptly that Michael piled into the back of him and made him stagger. In the middle of the bed was a single object: a set of metal teeth.