Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘And which am I?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I will not! Sit down, Matt.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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