Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  Paxtone was appalled. ‘But Okehamptone was pale and waxen, not at all like Hamecotes, who is black and bloated.’

  ‘That is because Hamecotes has been submerged in water for God knows how long,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘Of course they do not look the same now.’

  ‘But how do you know Okehamptone had a wound in his throat?’ asked Paxtone, regarding Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You did not exhume him, did you? Like the medical men in Italy are said to do? I will not condone that sort of activity, Matthew. It is not right!’

  ‘Okehamptone was not buried,’ said Michael briskly. ‘Which is just as well, given what we now know about him. No one wants his tortured soul roaming the streets of Cambridge, screaming for vengeance and haunting those who let him down, so you should be grateful for what Matt did.’

  ‘We especially do not want him at large when the Archbishop is here,’ agreed Dodenho. ‘It would mean our suppression for certain. Perhaps I should offer my services to Polmorva, so he will take me with him to Winchester or Haverhill when he establishes his new school.’

  ‘Yes, go and see him today,’ encouraged Wormynghalle. She fixed Paxtone with accusing eyes. ‘It sounds as though you almost allowed a killer to go free. How could you have missed a terrible injury like this on a man’s body?’

  ‘I am a physician, whose duty is to the living,’ replied Paxtone angrily. ‘I know there are men who learn anatomy from cadavers, but I am not one of them – I do not even touch them, if I can help it. That is why I did not see Hamecotes’s neck when Dodenho summoned me earlier, either.’

  ‘No harm has been done,’ said Dodenho, seeing Wormynghalle look angry at their colleague’s negligence. ‘Paxtone made a mistake, but Bartholomew has corrected it. Lesser mortals are prone to errors, and few of us are perfect.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Michael, evidently putting himself in the latter category. ‘So, we shall say no more about it. What we will discuss, however, is what we can learn about Hamecotes’s death now. Matt?’

  ‘He and Okehamptone have similar wounds, so they must have been killed by the same person or people.’

  ‘Boltone is as good a suspect as any,’ said Michael. ‘He knew Hamecotes, and may have met Okehamptone when he visited Oxford to present his accounts. Okehamptone died in Merton Hall, and Hamecotes’s body was concealed in Merton Hall – where Boltone lives. Eudo probably helped him.’

  ‘But why?’ wondered Bartholomew. ‘Why would they kill these two men?’

  ‘We will ask them when they are caught,’ said Michael. ‘I wonder why they moved Hamecotes from the cistern to here.’

  ‘Because they did not want his body found?’ suggested Paxtone. ‘Tulyet made no secret of the fact that he intended to dredge the pit, so they were obliged to hide their victim a second time.’

  ‘This does not make sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If they fished the body from the well, why did they not grab their sack of treasure at the same time?’

  ‘Perhaps they intended to go back for it when they finished dealing with Hamecotes, but ran out of time,’ said Michael with a dismissive wave of a fat white hand to indicate the point was unimportant. ‘The question I want answered is why did they bring Hamecotes here, where he would be so easily discovered?’

  ‘They probably did not know he would be “easily discovered”,’ said Paxtone. ‘I had no idea Dodenho uses this abandoned shed to practise his lectures, and I am sure the killers did not, either. What do you think, Wormynghalle?’

  ‘I saw Dodenho here once or twice,’ recalled Wormynghalle thoughtfully. ‘But I assumed he was meeting a woman, so of course I said nothing. We men must turn a blind eye to each other’s dalliances from time to time.’ She did not look at Bartholomew.

  ‘I shall not come here again, though,’ vowed Dodenho. ‘I prefer my audiences alive. Perhaps I will leave Cambridge and go to Oxford instead. They do not have rotting cadavers in deserted huts.’

  ‘Everything about this case points to Oxford,’ mused Michael. ‘We now have five men dead – Gonerby, Okehamptone, Chesterfelde, Spryngheuse and Hamecotes – all with links to the place.’ He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘Let us review what we know of these deaths chronologically. Gonerby died first, in February, during the riots. But who was next? Okehamptone died about two weeks ago, which is roughly the time you say Hamecotes left King’s Hall.’

  ‘Hamecotes did not kill Okehamptone,’ said Wormynghalle, immediately defensive of her room-mate. ‘Why would he do such a thing? They probably did not even know each other.’

  ‘You cannot be sure of that,’ argued Michael. ‘You said yourself that Hamecotes had “friends” in Oxford. And Okehamptone may have killed Hamecotes, anyway, not the other way around. We have no idea who died first, because Matt refuses to be more precise about times of death.’

  ‘I do not think either is guilty,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Their throat wounds are virtually identical, and I doubt one killed the other, and then was slain in the same way by a third person. That is unlikely, to say the least.’

  ‘I am not sure I agree with your assessment of bites,’ said Paxtone, reluctantly inspecting the wound and clearly finding it distasteful. ‘I acknowledge this rough gash was not made with a knife – even a blunt one – but teeth . . .’ He shuddered at the notion.

  Bartholomew pointed again to the marks still visible in the darkening skin. ‘You can see their impression. It looks as if someone grabbed the throat with his teeth and pulled at it. Like this.’

  Paxtone turned away with a gasp of revulsion, while Wormynghalle and Michael studiously refused to look until they were sure he had finished. Dodenho witnessed the demonstration, but only because he was too shocked to close his eyes.

  ‘That was singularly nasty,’ Dodenho said eventually, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His fingers shook violently. ‘What are you trying to do? Unnerve us into having nightmares, with visions of human wolves tearing at the necks of their innocent victims?’

  ‘Speaking of wolves, what do you think happened to Wolf?’ asked Michael. ‘We have ascertained that Hamecotes was not where you thought he should be, so what about your other absent colleague?’

  ‘We do not know,’ said Wormynghalle weakly. ‘Paxtone says he does not have the pox, and I do not think he is Rougham’s lover, because both men prefer ladies – as I do. Perhaps Norton is right, and he has absconded because he owes the College so much money. But I do not think he is the killer. Do you?’ She addressed her question to Dodenho, his room-mate.

  Dodenho considered carefully. ‘No. He does not have the teeth, for a start. His are decayed, and biting something like a throat would probably make most of them snap off.’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ exclaimed Paxtone, suddenly angry. ‘You must be mistaken, Matthew. People simply do not die in this way! I have been a physician for twenty-seven years, and I have never heard even the merest whisper of someone bitten to death by another person. I can see there are marks that may have been caused by fangs, but they must belong to a dog or a wild beast.’

  ‘It is possible,’ conceded Bartholomew, relieved that someone had suggested an alternative. ‘Perhaps someone trained an animal to kill.’

  Michael spoke in a low voice when the King’s Hall men began a debate about which creatures might be trained for killing: Paxtone said only dogs were so inclined, while Wormynghalle opted for a bear and Dodenho elected a ferret. ‘Or perhaps someone is so deranged that he thinks he is an animal. Do not forget Rougham, Matt – even I could tell a man had gnawed him. If I bit myself on the arm right now, I would see the same thing that I saw on his shoulder: a parabolic curve with oblong dents for choppers, and square ones for grinders.’

  Bartholomew nodded, staring down at the body. ‘The problem with Hamecotes – and Okehamptone, too – is that they have been dead too long. The skin has rotted and changed its texture, so the marks are distorted. There may be a parabolic curve here, and these marks may be molars and incisors.
But it is impossible to be sure.’

  Michael winced at what he considered unnecessary detail. ‘I believe Hamecotes, Okehamptone and Rougham – and probably Gonerby too – were victims of the same person, because it is impossible that we should have two lunatic biters on the loose simultaneously. But this leads us to more questions: first, how is Rougham connected to the Merton Hall deaths, and second, who is this maniac?’

  ‘It cannot be Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘If it were, then we would have to assume that he also took Hamecotes from the cistern and brought him here. He has been at Stourbridge, and has had no opportunity to tote corpses around the town.’

  ‘We have been through this before, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Clippesby has had the opportunity to retrieve and hide bodies. He regularly escapes from his cell, and he does not even bother to deny the fact. I know you are reluctant to believe he could do such a thing, but I think it is time we faced up to the truth, and took a long hard look at him.’

  Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘You can look all you like, but Clippesby is not our man. He has no reason to select these particular victims. I think you were right with your original theory: that there is something odd going on that involves Oxford – and Merton in particular – because all these deaths have some link to those places.’

  ‘With the exception of Rougham.’

  ‘He is in his fifties, and claims to have travelled. He may well have studied at Oxford in the past.’ ‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle, breaking into their discussion. ‘Those Oxford men have no right to bring dangerous creatures to our city. It is only a matter of time before the thing attacks someone else, and I do not want it said that scholars harbour savage beasts for the express purpose of slaughter.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Dodenho. ‘Eudo whipped the townsfolk into a frenzy this morning with his tales of scholars blaming him for crimes he did not commit. If word leaks out that we have killer ferrets in our halls, they will rise up against us for certain.’

  ‘Then we must make sure they do not,’ said Michael decisively. ‘Keep this affair with Hamecotes quiet until I tell you otherwise. Bury him as soon as you can, but do not tell the students what really happened. We have a great deal to lose, and we must be discreet.’

  ‘You can trust us,’ said Paxtone. ‘We do not want our College attacked or the town in flames. Hamecotes will be buried tomorrow, but no one will know how he died.’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael. He glanced out of the window, gauging the hour by the angle of the sun. ‘It is almost time for this requiem. Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse should go in the ground as soon as possible: I do not want dead scholars used as a rallying point as halls and Colleges rise up against the town.’

  Bartholomew followed Michael to St Michael’s Church, where the monk performed a moving and solemn mass. Bartholomew had expected Duraunt and Polmorva to attend, but he was surprised to see the three merchants, too. Eu and Abergavenny stood together near the front of the small gathering of mourners, but the tanner remained apart from them. Judging by the number of black looks he threw in their direction, they had had a serious falling-out over something.

  Towards the end of the service, at its sacred climax, the largest of the altar candles began to gutter, and Bartholomew realised he had not changed it since Michael had complained about its defective wick. Before he could fetch a replacement, the flame had flickered and gone out.

  ‘That is an omen,’ he heard Eu whisper, while Wormynghalle began to cross himself. ‘There is something amiss with this whole business, and God has sent us a sign.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied Polmorva. ‘It tells us only that Michaelhouse did not have the decency to provide new candles for our dead.’

  ‘It does not mean that either,’ said Duraunt, sounding tired. ‘It simply means one candle is finished and a new one is needed.’

  ‘It means there are restless spirits here,’ said Wormynghalle, looking around fearfully, as if he expected one to come and accost him. ‘And they do not like what we are doing.’

  ‘We are watching a holy rite,’ said Polmorva archly. ‘Why should spirits object to that?’

  ‘It depends on the spirit,’ said Eu in his laconic manner. ‘Demonic ones will not appreciate a sacred office, I am sure. But perhaps the candle expired because God knows what really happened to Spryngheuse, and He does not want his sinful body in consecrated ground.’

  ‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle. His face was white and his eyes dilated with fear. ‘I am not staying here to be blasted by divinely inspired lightning.’

  He clattered out of the building as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving Bartholomew staring after him in astonishment, amazed that a rough, insensitive man like the tanner should be so seriously agitated by the end of a candle. Eu laughed, hard and derisively, distracting Michael from his duties.

  ‘Stop that!’ said the monk sharply. ‘Snigger outside if you must, but do not befoul my church with undignified behaviour. If there are bolts of lightning on their way, it will be because you have cackled and chattered during the Transubstantiation.’

  ‘The candle going out is significant,’ insisted Eu, chagrined and sulky at the rebuke. ‘A flame extinguishing itself during the mass means something terrible will happen. You mark my words.’

  The following day was a Saturday, so teaching finished early, and Bartholomew and Michael went to visit Rougham. They found him out of bed and sitting at the lower-ground window. His face was pale and he was thinner than he had been, but he had washed and shaved, and had lost the hollow-eyed stare that had made Bartholomew fear for his life. He was laughing when Bartholomew tapped on the door and entered. The physician had never seen Rougham laugh, except on occasions when a student or a colleague had done something stupid, when he made a braying sound full of derision. But this was an open guffaw, full of genuine mirth.

  ‘Matilde has been entertaining me,’ he explained when he saw his colleague’s bemusement. ‘She has tales about life at Court you would not believe. She is wasted here. She should be with Queen Philippa, employing her many accomplishments and securing herself a decent husband.’

  Matilde gave a wistful smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she might concur, and it crossed his mind to ask her to marry him then and there. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rougham chattered on, and Bartholomew did not want to propose in front of an audience anyway. He decided to ask later, when Rougham was back at Gonville and they could be alone.

  ‘She plays the lute with a skill I have seldom seen.’ Rougham continued with his eulogy when Matilde went to fetch cushions for her guests. ‘And she sings with the voice of an angel. She reads better than any Bible Scholar I have heard, and she sees through the political manoeuvrings of the King’s Court with a skill any clerk would envy. I repeat: she should not be squandering her talents here.’

  ‘You have enjoyed her company, then?’ asked Michael wryly.

  ‘I most certainly have!’ declared Rougham with great conviction. ‘I was horrified when Yolande and her husband brought me here: to the home of the woman who organises the town’s whores into an efficient and well-run guild. But Matilde is not like them and, since I have regained my wits, she has impressed me with her modesty and gentleness. It is not every lady who would take an ailing man into her home and risk so much for him. But Matilde did so without complaint, and my reputation remains intact.’

  ‘Hers is not, though,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply. ‘And besides, she only did it because you threatened to expose Clippesby.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Rougham. ‘Clippesby. We must decide what to do about him. I overheard Yolande and Matilde talking last night, discussing rumours that a man called Gonerby died from a bitten throat. Clippesby cannot be allowed to continue his reign of terror.’

  ‘I am not convinced of his guilt,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that Rougham had learned about one of the other attacks already. ‘The evidence against h
im is circumstantial, and—’

  ‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ said Rougham firmly. ‘As I lay bleeding and dazed, there he was, looming above me, covered in my blood. That is not circumstantial, Bartholomew: that is fact.’

  ‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael sombrely. ‘Clippesby is a danger to himself and to others, and we need to make a decision about his future.’

  Rougham touched Bartholomew lightly on the arm. ‘I am grateful to you for helping me. We are not friends, and you would have been perfectly within your rights to take me to Gonville and explain I was attacked while visiting Yolande. But you have acted with decency and understanding, and I intend to reciprocate. I have given the matter a good deal of thought over the last two days, and I have a plan.’

  ‘A plan for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  ‘A plan for Clippesby. He cannot be allowed to return to Michaelhouse as though nothing has happened – not only because none of us want him to kill again, but because it would not look good for Michaelhouse to harbour homicidal lunatics.’

  ‘I thought we could send him home to his father,’ said Michael. ‘We cannot grant him a benefice in some remote village, because he might start eating his parishioners.’

  ‘His family might be as mad as he is,’ Rougham pointed out, not unreasonably. ‘But my brother owns large estates in Norfolk, and I established a hospital there a few years ago. It is remote, secure and run by an Austin Canon who asks no questions. He is a good man, and will treat Clippesby kindly.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The hospital has its own chickens, geese, sheep and cows, so Clippesby will have plenty of suitable company.’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘For how long?’

  ‘For the rest of his life,’ replied Rougham. He sighed in exasperation when he saw his colleague’s shock. ‘There is no other solution, man, and I am offering a haven, where he will be safe and cared for and where no one else will suffer as I have. I am even volunteering to pay for his keep.’