The Mark of a Murderer (42 page)

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 him 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.’

‘You are very generous,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could refuse. ‘And you are also right: there is no other solution
to this problem. Clippesby should, by rights, answer for his crimes and pay with his life, but the town and the University
are too unsettled to have that sort of scandal circulating.’

‘You mean you do not want the Archbishop to know that Michaelhouse Fellows attack innocent men with their teeth,’ said Rougham.
‘Well, I happen to concur: I do not want Islip to build his new foundation in Oxford, when it should come here. We must unite
on this, because it would be a pity to let Clippesby’s illness deprive our University of what is its right.’

‘But to lock a man away for the rest of his life . . .’ said Bartholomew, troubled. He recalled Clippesby’s distress when
informed that he was to be incarcerated for a few
days, and could not imagine how he would react to being told he would never be free again.

‘It is horrible, but necessary,’ said Rougham. ‘Besides, he should be grateful his life is to be spared. You saw what he did
to me, and perhaps you inspected the corpse of the man he murdered – this Gonerby. You cannot allow him his liberty.’

‘It is settled, then,’ said Michael. ‘We should make arrangements as soon as we can – before the Visitation, if possible.
Clippesby wants to see Islip, and I do not want him to escape from Stourbridge and bite the throat of the highest-ranking
churchman in the country.’

‘I have already sent word to my Norfolk hospital,’ said Rougham. ‘Matilde hired a messenger, and he is riding as we speak.
I recommend Clippesby leaves on Monday morning. I would say tomorrow, but it is Sunday, and I do not want to despoil the Sabbath.
The Archbishop will not be here until Monday afternoon, so it should work out nicely.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. He smiled when Matilde entered the room and handed him a goblet of wine. ‘And when will
you
be ready to leave, Rougham?’

Hope flared in Matilde’s eyes, and Bartholomew saw that while Rougham might be enjoying his sojourn now he was well enough
to appreciate her lively and erudite company, she was tired of him, and wanted him gone.

‘Tomorrow or the day after, God willing,’ replied Rougham. ‘Once I am at Gonville, I can blame my poor health on the journey
from Norfolk. No one will question me, because it is common knowledge that travelling is dangerous. Look what happened to
poor Henry Okehamptone.’

Bartholomew regarded him warily. ‘How do you know his name was Henry?’

‘We were friends,’ explained Rougham. ‘He wrote to say
he was coming, and I invited him to stay at Gonville. I was surprised – and offended – when he elected to remain at Merton
Hall instead.’

‘You
knew
Okehamptone?’ asked Bartholomew. He exchanged a glance with Michael.

Rougham nodded. ‘I went to see him the night he arrived – on Ascension Day eve – but was told he was indisposed, and too ill
to receive me. The next day, the poor fellow was dead of fever.’

‘Who told you he was indisposed?’ asked Michael. ‘Duraunt?’

‘Someone I did not recognise. He was rather rude, given that I had gone to meet an old friend – I was not even invited inside.
If I had been admitted, I would have examined Henry, and might even have been able to save him.’ Rougham grimaced. ‘And I
would have been occupied with his care, so would have cancelled my appointment with Yolande. A great many things would have
turned out differently, had I been allowed to see Henry that night.’

‘What did he look like?’ persisted Michael. ‘This man who refused to let you in?’

‘Fine clothes. Haughty and officious. He made me feel as though I was a beggar after scraps.’

‘Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew immediately.

‘Why do you ask?’ Rougham looked from Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You seem to think my friendship with Henry is significant in
some way. Why? What do you know that makes you glance so meaningfully at each other?’