The Mark of a Murderer (17 page)

As he made his way through the dark streets, he tried to
keep to the shadows, lingering in some to assess whether he was being followed or watched. He was too weary to be properly
vigilant, and although he saw the occasional movement out of the corner of his eye, he could not determine whether it was
just a leaf blowing in the soft breeze, a cat hunting rodents, someone who would gossip about him the next day, or the product
of an overwrought imagination.

When he arrived, he told Matilde that their ‘secret’ was now common knowledge, and that even his sister knew about their assignations.
Matilde’s expression was wry when she mentioned that Edith had quizzed her ruthlessly until she had extracted a confession,
but together the two women had devised a plan that they hoped might ease the situation. Bartholomew flopped on to one of Matilde’s
comfortable benches and rested his head in his hands, feeling exhaustion wash over him in a great unstoppable tide. Matilde
looked fatigued, too; there were dark rings under her eyes and she was less immaculately groomed than usual.

‘Well?’ he asked, his voice muffled. ‘What have you and my sister decided will protect us from wagging tongues?’

‘This,’ Matilde replied, presenting him with a lurid, gold-coloured liripipe – a fashionable hood-come-scarf that could be
donned in a variety of styles.

He regarded it without enthusiasm. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’

Matilde sighed, her own lassitude making her unusually irritable with him. ‘You wear it, Matthew.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, pushing it back at her and thinking how bizarre it would look with his sober academic attire. ‘This
is not the kind of thing I favour. It is yellow, for God’s sake.’

She shoved it firmly into his unwilling hands. ‘You must try to get some sleep tonight, because you are uncommonly slow witted.
The fact that this is
not
something you would
normally wear means that people will not associate you with it and it will hide your face if you wrap it properly. Folk will
see only an amber-hatted man.’ She saw his blank expression and sighed again. ‘It is what is generally known as a “disguise”.’

Reluctantly, he pulled the thing over his head. It felt ridiculous, and he disliked the scratchy sensation around his neck.
‘Will it work, do you think?’

‘Edith chose it as being the least likely thing you would ever select for yourself. But do not forget to conceal it during
the day. If you leave it out for all to see, then it will have the opposite effect – it will advertise what you are doing.’

When he returned to the College, well before dawn this time, Bartholomew was annoyed, but not surprised, to discover that
someone had barred the orchard door again. This time, however, he had a contingency plan – one that did not involve arriving
early at the church and pretending to be at his devotions. He walked to the bottom of the lane, where a tall wall separated
Michaelhouse’s grounds from the towpath that ran along the river. A heap of discarded barrels and other riverine clutter lay
at the foot of the wall, and he clambered up it. There was a long drop over the other side, but he had spent an hour moving
compost the previous afternoon, and it provided him with a soft landing. He jumped, rolled easily and made his way back to
his room. He even managed to sleep for a while before the College bell and an answering shriek from the night porter’s peacock
announced that it was time for the scholars to rise for the morning service.

He prised himself from his bed, and washed and shaved with the water his book-bearer left for him each night, feeling its
icy chill revive him. He rummaged in a chest for a clean tunic, and pulled it over his head, acutely aware that the old one
was scented with the rosemary Matilde kept in her bedroom. A jerkin followed, and his hose and
academic tabard completed his uniform. His boots were near the door and, as he walked across the yard, he saw they were stained
with mud from his nocturnal tramp through the gardens. Hoping no one was watching, he stood on one leg to scrub first one
and then the other on the backs of his hose, before joining the line that formed as the scholars emerged from their rooms,
most complaining about the early-morning chill, the shrillness of the bell, the fact that it was drizzling, and anything else
that bothered them before the first sunrays touched the eastern sky.

The Fellows were in a huddle behind Langelee, waiting to follow their Master in their daily procession to church. Michael
stood next to Father William, and Bartholomew was repelled to see that the strand of cabbage Michael had flicked away two
days before still adorned the friar’s shoulder, crusted and dry. The morose Suttone, whose predawn conversation usually revolved
around the imminent return of the plague, was with a lawyer named Wynewyk, who was invariably more concerned with predicting
Michaelhouse’s imminent fiscal collapse. The last Fellow was Kenyngham, an ancient Gilbertine friar who was oblivious to his
colleagues’ grumbles and proclamations as he stood with his hands clasped in reverent prayer.

‘Any news about Clippesby?’ Langelee asked Bartholomew, wincing when the wind blew drizzle directly into his face. ‘I heard
you visited him on Sunday.’

‘He is still unwell.’

‘Unwell!’ snorted William. ‘He is insane, man, so say what you mean! However, we must remember that he is a Dominican, and
men of that Order are prone to madness. It comes from being obliged to put up with each other’s company.’

‘Visit him again today,’ ordered Langelee, while Suttone pointed out to William that he himself was enough to drive
sane men to lunacy with his bigoted opinions. ‘God knows, I was relieved to have him gone for a while – his philosophical
discourses with bats and pigs were becoming an embarrassment – but we need him back. His students complained about Michael’s
teaching again last night.’

‘Did they indeed?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘And what is wrong with it, pray?’

‘They say you do not know what you are talking about,’ replied Langelee baldly. ‘And do not look at me with such outrage,
Brother. You told me yourself that you are not qualified to take these classes. The astronomy students are disgruntled, too,
but
they
say they are being taught subjects that are too advanced. It is a pity you two cannot get together and provide something
in the middle.’

‘I could teach them theology,’ offered William. ‘I am busy, of course, but I could manage an hour to tell them something worth
knowing – something better than music
or
astronomy.’ He almost spat the last words, making no secret of what he thought about any subjects taught by a Dominican.

‘No, thank you,’ said Langelee, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I do not want them to grumble that they are being railed at
by a fanatic, either.’ He turned to Michael while the Franciscan spluttered with indignation. ‘The whole town is talking about
that murder at Merton Hall. Should we be concerned? It is rumoured that scholars from Oxford are trying to besmirch our good
name, to encourage Islip to found his College there instead of here.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘Who has been spreading these tales?’

‘Probably that Doctor Rougham,’ said Suttone gloomily. ‘He is a nasty fellow, and it is the sins of men like him that will
bring the Death down on us again.’

‘Rougham is not here,’ said William, who listened to a good deal of gossip himself. ‘He has gone to see his family
in Norfolk, although I do not think he should have been granted permission to leave in the middle of term.’

‘He was not,’ said Michael. ‘He sent his Master a letter after he left, at a point when his “request” could not be refused.
Hamecotes of King’s Hall did the same. They both knew what they were doing: once they have gone there is nothing we can do
about it, and fines mean little to rich men.’

‘Hamecotes’s colleague Wolf did not send any such letter, though,’ said William. ‘He just left – probably because he is in
debt.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am more concerned with these tales about Oxford than in disobedient scholars. Where did
they originate?’

‘With Weasenham, the University stationer,’ said Langelee. ‘You know what
he
is like for chatter.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But this is more dangerous than idle gossip. It may send our scholars in a vengeful horde
to the Oxford men at Merton Hall, and we shall have yet more murders on our hands. And that will certainly not impress Islip.’

‘Do you think Chesterfelde was murdered by Cambridge students?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because they think he came here with the
express purpose of harming us? That is what Weasenham was speculating, yesterday.’

‘I shall do some speculating with him,’ said Michael angrily. ‘Does the man
want
us to lose Islip? What is he thinking of, spreading those sorts of tales at a time like this?’

‘He has been fabricating rumours about Matt, too,’ said Wynewyk, shivering as the drizzle became a more persistent downpour.
He pulled his cloak closely around his slight frame. ‘He said Matt has serviced Matilde every night for the last twelve days.’

‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Langelee angrily. ‘Just
because a man emerges from a woman’s boudoir does not mean that they have “serviced” each other. Bartholomew and Matilde could
have been playing dice for all Weasenham knows.’

Bartholomew was appalled that the rumour should be so explicit, and wondered whether the liripipe ruse would work. He sincerely
hoped so, for Matilde’s sake as much as his own. He was aware that his colleagues were waiting for him to deny the accusation,
but was at a loss for words. He could hardly say he had not visited Matilde night after night, when he had done exactly that.

‘It does not look good,’ said Suttone, after a lengthy silence. ‘You should not be there, Matthew, even if you pass the time
reading sacred texts. Not at that time of night.’

Langelee addressed Bartholomew more kindly. ‘I know a lusty man needs a little female attention now and again, and I do not
condemn you for that – even though it is against College statutes – because I indulge myself on occasion, and I am no hypocrite.’

He glowered at Suttone in a way that indicated the same could not be said for him. Bartholomew was astonished: Suttone was
the last man he would have imagined dealing with women.

Suttone looked decidedly furtive. ‘I do not—’

Langelee overrode him, still addressing Bartholomew. ‘But you must learn discretion, man! You
must
avoid being seen.’

Without further ado, the Master moved to the front of the procession and led his scholars to St Michael’s Church. Rob Deynman,
the College’s least able student, walked in front, bearing the large cross that was only ever brought out for ceremonial occasions.
There was nothing special about that particular Tuesday, but Langelee wanted it used
during the Visitation, and since Deynman was apt to be clumsy, he needed all the practice he could get. Michael fell into
place next to Bartholomew, speaking in a low voice so he would not be overheard.

‘You are lucky. Any other Master would have fined you or had your Fellowship revoked. But you should heed his warning – you
cannot continue to flout the rules like this, because even he will not be able to protect you much longer, no matter how much
he wants to keep you here.’

‘He does?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. He was gradually beginning to like – and even to respect – Langelee, despite the
man’s many faults and his appalling lack of scholarship, but he had been under the impression that medicine was barely tolerated
at Michaelhouse, and was regarded as a necessary evil rather than the equal of the venerated disciplines of theology and law.

Michael nodded. ‘Your concern for Cambridge’s poor and their nasty diseases is good for Michaelhouse, and he would never risk
antagonising them by dismissing you. He is also fond of you in his own brutish way and feels a certain kinship – you, he and
Wynewyk are seculars among us monks and friars. Wynewyk prefers men, but you and Langelee are alike in your love of women.’

‘I love Matilde,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking the clerics were no more chaste than he was, if Suttone’s reaction had
been anything to go by, while he strongly suspected Michael was not always faithful to his vow of celibacy, either. ‘I am
not lusting after half the women in town, as you imply.’

‘Neither is Langelee – at least not any more. He has curbed his appetites, and confines himself to a single paramour. However,
they
do not fling themselves into the bedchamber on a nightly basis without caring who sees them.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. He experienced a sudden pang of alarm when he considered Langelee’s patient tolerance
of him. ‘It is not my sister, is it?’

Michael gave a startled snort of laughter that drew the unwelcome attention of William. He lowered his voice further still.
‘Edith is a loyal wife, and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such thoughts about a woman who is above reproach.
Besides, she has far more taste than to entertain Langelee. However, you will never guess the identity of our Master’s lover,
because you would not believe he could seduce her without unhappy repercussions.’

‘No talking!’ snapped William. ‘We are about to witness a sacred mass, and you should be inspecting your souls for sin, not
gossiping about women. Who
is
Langelee’s lover, then?’

Fortunately for Michael, Langelee was listening to Wynewyk’s diatribe about the alarming state of the College accounts, and
was far too concerned by the predictions of impending bankruptcy to pay heed to the conversations of others.

‘Agatha the laundress,’ said Michael flippantly, selecting the least likely candidate imaginable. Agatha was the formidable
woman who ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs, and who intimidated every male who lived or worked there. His jest went wide,
however, and the Franciscan’s jaw fell open in astonishment as he took Michael’s comment at face value. Bartholomew grinned
as William fell back to consider the implications of such a liaison, and wondered what trouble Michael had just created for
the Master.