The Mark of a Murderer (52 page)

‘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.’