The Mark of a Murderer (25 page)

‘You took a great risk,’ agreed Michael. ‘Especially to help someone like Doctor Rougham. He would not have done the same
for you, Matt. On the contrary: he would have used the situation as an excuse to cause you as much damage as possible.’

‘I am not doing it for him,’ said Bartholomew. He looked at Matilde and his bleak expression softened with affection. She
smiled back, but sadly, and it did not touch her eyes. Michael watched the exchange with frank curiosity, but kept his thoughts
to himself.

‘How did you guess what was going on?’ Matilde asked the monk, twisting her empty goblet through restless fingers. ‘Why did
you not believe Matthew was enjoying the company of a harlot every night, as everyone else seems to have done?’ Her voice
was bitter.

‘You cannot blame them,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘You must see how it looks for a man to slink away in the dark and visit
you – Mistress of the Guild of Frail Sisters – night after night.’

Matilde shook her head, and the monk was startled to see the sparkle of tears. She was exhausted, and the relief of sharing
her burden was almost too much to bear. Her voice was angry as she embarked on a sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. ‘It
is not fair! I was awarded my dubious reputation the moment I set foot in this town, although I did little to deserve it.
I admit, I accepted the occasional man into my chambers at first – if he could afford my fees – but they were infrequent.
Do you know that no man has secured my favours for more than two years now? I am as chaste as you are, Brother.’

Bartholomew stared into the fire, thinking that she might have chosen a better example of chastity than the
fat monk. However, he was certain she was telling the truth about her own situation; she had mentioned several times of late
that her days of frolicking with wealthy patrons were over.

‘They jump to those conclusions because of your association with whores,’ said Michael gently. ‘You cannot stand up for their
rights and expect not to be connected with what they do.’

Matilde was distressed. ‘When I first came here, I thought it was amusing to be the subject of such exotic tales. But those
things are for younger women, and now I am older, I crave respectability – I want an end to all this merry chatter. But this
business with Rougham has done damage I fear will prove irreparable.’

Bartholomew watched the flames devour a log, destroying it slowly but inexorably, just as the town’s gossip was doing to Matilde’s
chances of earning respect. She would never have it, no matter how long she remained in Cambridge, playing the role of an
upright and moral woman. It was simply more interesting for people to believe otherwise, and he knew they would do so for
the rest of her life. Her only recourse was to move away, but he hoped she would not. However, if she did want to leave, he
decided to go with her, prepared to give up his life as a scholar for the woman he loved so deeply. He felt an urge to ask
her to marry him there and then, but an uncomfortable shyness suddenly assailed him, and he knew he could not broach the subject
when Michael was present.

‘How did you guess, Brother?’ he asked instead, dragging his thoughts away from a future with Matilde, and grateful that at
least he would not have to lie to Michael any more. The monk was astute, and it had been difficult trying to mislead him.

‘Through a few clues here and there, and a good deal
of cleverness,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘But I put the last pieces of the puzzle together when Cynric told that
outrageous story about Gonerby being killed by a bite. You were appalled, but not surprised. While I argued with Cynric that
it is impossible to die in such a manner, you remained suspiciously silent. And you are not usually mute about such matters.’

‘You mean on methods of killing?’ asked Matilde, regarding Bartholomew uneasily.

‘On anything to do with physiology. I had to ask him direct questions about these bites, whereas normally he would have volunteered
the information in tedious detail. Also, he had mentioned a throat wound in the body in the cistern, but it was left to me
to make the connection between that and Gonerby. He is not often slow to see such associations, and his reaction sent me a
clear message: he had encountered such an injury before.’

‘But how did you go from that to me?’ asked Matilde.

Michael shrugged. ‘It was obvious once I thought about it. I have been nagging him about his visits here for days, and I sensed
there was more to them than romping in your attic. Nor is he a man to put personal enjoyment before the reputation of a lady,
especially one he adores. Therefore, I reasoned that it was not you he was here to see, but someone else. A patient.’

‘How did you guess it was Rougham?’ asked Bartholomew, acutely aware of Matilde’s flush of pleasure that accompanied Michael’s
words.

Michael smiled ruefully. ‘I did not. He was the
last
person I expected to discover! But tell me again what happened.’ He raised a hand when Bartholomew started to object. ‘I
know you swore never to reveal his secret, but I already know the essence of this tale, so it cannot harm to fill in the details.
And I may be able to help. You two have aroused so much suspicion that you will be hard-pressed to remove
him from this house without being seen. You will need my assistance.’

‘He will not like it,’ warned Matilde. ‘He almost died before I persuaded him to summon Matthew, and he made us both swear,
on our lives, that we would keep his story secret.’

‘I do not care,’ said Michael harshly. ‘The man has been responsible for harming – perhaps permanently – two of my friends.
I do not care what he likes or dislikes. And, what is more important, he is lucky I do not storm up to his sickbed and fine
him for dallying with loose women.’

A weak knock sounded through the ceiling. ‘There he is again,’ said Matilde wearily. ‘I thought you said he was better.’

‘He is – and that will be the problem from now on,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He is well enough to make demands. The sooner we
take him to Gonville the better. Then his colleagues can tend him.’

‘I am exhausted,’ said Matilde, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. ‘You see to him, Matthew. I shall need all
my strength to deal with him again tomorrow.’

‘Now I understand why you refused to let me visit her,’ said Michael softly. ‘You knew she would either be sleeping or wrestling
with Rougham’s care.’

‘His illness has been severe, and he has needed someone with him almost every moment for the past two weeks. We agreed that
Matilde would tend him from dawn until I was able to escape at night, and I would care for him during the hours of darkness
– I could not come during the day, not without affecting my teaching and other patients. And there was you to consider: you
would have been suspicious, had I started to visit her at the expense of my other duties.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But this affair has worn both of you to the bone.’

Bartholomew grinned wryly. ‘Weasenham and other like-minded
men have assumed our exhaustion is due to energy expended on each other, but the truth is that we have been so weary that
we can barely exchange greetings. Frolicking in any form has been out of the question.’

‘Damn Rougham,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘He does not know what he has done.’

‘Come with me,’ said Bartholomew, when he saw Matilde was sleeping. Tenderly, he covered her with a blanket, and led the way
upstairs. ‘Rougham can tell you his tale himself.’

Michael followed him to the upper room in Matilde’s attractive home. A bed filled most of the chamber, loaded with furs and
cushions. A man lay among them, his eyes bright with ill health and his face flushed. His breathing was shallow and rapid,
but he seemed alert enough. To Bartholomew, he was dramatically improved; there had been times when he had been certain that
his fellow physician would die. Now the fever was receding, and all he needed was to regain his strength with rest and a carefully
designed diet.

‘There you are,’ said Rougham peevishly. ‘I have been knocking for hours. You promised there would be someone with me every
minute of the day.’

‘You no longer need that degree of attention,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the bed, and holding the man’s wrist
to assess the rate of his pulse. ‘You are on the road to recovery and will be able to go home soon.’

‘No!’ breathed Rougham. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he was objecting to leaving Matilde, and was about to say that he
had imposed himself on her for quite long enough, when he glanced up to see Rougham’s eyes fixed on Michael. ‘You promised
to keep my secret! You have broken your word!’

‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said Michael sharply. ‘And you owe him a good deal. Do you have any idea what
coming here every night has cost him? And Matilde, who has been obliged to look after you all day while he teaches, tends
his patients, examines corpses for me, and tries to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss?’

‘I will pay them,’ said Rougham angrily. ‘I am a wealthy man, and reward people for good service and discretion.’ He glared
at Bartholomew in a way that indicated he felt he had not been given either.

‘Gold is not everything,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And before you abuse the two people who saved your life, let me inform you
that they
have
kept their promise. I guessed Matt was coming here to nurse a patient, although I confess I was surprised when I learned
it was you – I thought it would be one of the Frail Sisters. How in God’s name did you allow yourself to be seduced by a whore?’

There was a pause, during which Rougham regarded Michael in disbelief, scarcely crediting that one man should ask such a question
of another. Eventually, he answered. ‘Surely even a monk must understand that normal males need women to rebalance their humours?
I rebalance mine with Yolande de Blaston every first Monday in the month. It helps to be regular. That is a medical fact.’

‘Is it?’ Michael asked Bartholomew. The physician shrugged that he did not know, so Michael went back to regarding Rougham
with distaste. ‘You visit Yolande in her house? Where she lives with her husband and children?’

‘Well, I can hardly invite her to Gonville, can I?’ snapped Rougham. ‘Besides, her family are very accommodating, and I always
take marchpanes for the brats. Her husband, meanwhile, is grateful for any money that can go towards feeding them all.’

‘That is true,’ said Bartholomew, who had known about the Blastons’ peculiar marital arrangements for years. Personally, he
believed the family would have been a good deal smaller if Yolande’s nocturnal enterprises had been
curtailed, and was certain very few of her offspring were fathered by the carpenter. But every child was deeply loved, regardless
of the fact that several bore uncanny resemblances to prominent townsmen and high-ranking members of the University.

‘I always hire her late at night, and tell my colleagues that I am going to see a patient,’ Rougham went on. ‘It is not unusual
for physicians to be called out at odd times, so they never question me.’

‘So, did Yolande or one of her family hurt you?’ asked Michael, indicating the bandages that swathed the man’s shoulder.

‘Of course not! I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting.’ Rougham snapped his fingers at Bartholomew
to indicate he was thirsty, and only continued with his tale when watered wine had been brought. ‘I was approaching her house
for our usual liaison, when I sensed something amiss. Someone was watching me. I could not shake off the feeling, but I had
paid Yolande in advance and I was loath to waste my money by going home again; and there was my medical need to consider.
I decided to continue with my …physic. I knocked on her door, and it was then that the attack occurred. I recall very
little about it, other than that it was quick and very vicious.’

‘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.’