The Mark of a Murderer (3 page)

‘You should be careful, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘Cambridge is a small town and very little happens that someone does not
notice – even when you are being cautious.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, closing his eyes prayerfully to indicate the conversation was over.

Michael was not so easily silenced. ‘I needed you earlier, and you were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered the orchard
door unbarred – for the tenth night in a row.’

Bartholomew opened his eyes and regarded the fat monk accusingly. ‘Did
you
close it?’

Michael pursed his lips, offended. ‘Knowing you planned to use it later? Of course not! What sort of friend do you think I
am?’

‘I am sorry,’ muttered Bartholomew. He rubbed his eyes again, and wished he felt more alert; Michael was the last man to lock
him out, no matter what rules he was breaking. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you need me? Were you ill?’

‘There was a murder.’

‘How do you know it was murder?’

‘I am told there is a dagger embedded in the corpse’s back,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘And even a lowly proctor knows a man
cannot do that to himself.’

Despite the fact that there was a body awaiting Michael’s inspection, and that he and his Corpse Examiner had been summoned
before dawn – almost two hours earlier – the monk refused to attend his duties until he had had his breakfast. Personally,
Bartholomew felt the fat monk could do with missing the occasional repast, and encouraged him
to forgo the egg-mess, pickled herrings and rich meat pottage provided as part of the Pentecost celebrations, but his advice
fell on stony ground. Michael intended to make the most of all the meals on offer that day, and no cadaver was going to lie
in his way. When he had first been appointed proctor, Michael had chased recalcitrant students all over the town with considerable
vigour, but he had since trained his beadles to do that sort of thing, and the only exercise now required was the short walk
between College and his office in St Mary the Great. Over the past year, Bartholomew had noticed that the monk now waddled
rather than walked, and that even a short burst of activity left him red-faced and breathless.

Langelee led his scholars back to Michaelhouse, where a bell rang to announce that breakfast was ready. Since it was Sunday,
and the religious observations were always longer and later in starting, the scholars were peckish, so there was a concerted
dash for the stairs that led to the handsome hall on the upper floor. The chamber’s window shutters had been thrown open,
filling the room with light, and a gentle breeze wafted through the glassless openings, bringing with it the scent of summer.
Benches and trestle tables had been set up, and loaves of bread, hacked into lumps, awaited the scholars’ consumption.

Michael charged to the high table, where the Fellows ate, and shuffled in agitated impatience while Langelee waited for the
others to take their places, so he could say grace. Some masters used grace as an opportunity to hold forth to a helplessly
captive audience, but Langelee was a practical man with plenty to do – little of which included studying – and his prayers
were invariably short and to the point. He spoke one or two insincere words in a loud, confident voice, and was sitting down
with his knife in his hand before most scholars even realised he had started. In view of the special occasion, he decreed
that conversation was
permitted that day, and dismissed the Bible Scholar, who usually read aloud during meals.

As soon as he had finished speaking, servants began to bring the food, which was served in ‘messes’ – large ones to be shared
by four in the body of the hall, and smaller ones for two at the high table. Bartholomew was grateful he was not obliged to
share with Michael, knowing it would be an unequal contest and that he would almost certainly go hungry. The monk reached
for the largest piece of bread, then leaned back so that pottage, heavily laced with diced meat, could be ladled into the
dish in front of him, demanding more when the servant stopped before it was fully loaded.

‘I see one of us does not miss Clippesby,’ said a morose Carmelite friar called Suttone, as he watched Michael’s gluttony
with rank disapproval. ‘He is your mess-mate, and the fact that he is ill means you do not have to give him half.’ He glanced
at Langelee, who shared his own dishes, and added pointedly, ‘Clippesby is considerate, and
always
divides the best parts evenly.’

Langelee responded by eating more quickly, and Bartholomew thought Suttone would be better fed if he did not waste time on
futile recriminations: Langelee rarely spoke until he had finished feeding, and Suttone needed to do the same if he wanted
an equal division of spoils. Bartholomew’s own mess-mate was William, who also ate more than his own allocation, but at least
he usually asked whether the physician minded.

Michael was unashamedly gleeful that he could enjoy his food without competition. ‘I dislike teaching his music classes, but
I do not miss him at meals.’ He released a sudden exclamation of horror and recoiled from his dish as though it had bitten
him. ‘There is cabbage in this!’

‘Only a little,’ said Bartholomew. It was such a minute shred that he could barely see it. ‘It will not kill you.’

‘It might,’ countered Michael vehemently. ‘I do not eat food that is popular with caterpillars. I am always afraid that one
of them might still be on it.’

‘Then it will be meat,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And you have no objection to that.’

‘But caterpillars are green, and nothing green shall pass
my
lips,’ said Michael firmly, picking out the offending sliver and flinging it away with considerable force. It landed on William,
who did not notice. Then the monk took an enormous horn spoon from his pouch, and began shovelling pottage into his mouth
as if it might be the last food he would ever enjoy.

‘Slowly, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware that they went through this particular routine almost every day. ‘It is not a race
– especially now Clippesby is not here.’

‘Yes and no,’ said Michael, glancing at Langelee. The Master was a rapid eater, and it was not unknown for him to gobble his
own food, then leap to his feet, say the final grace and dismiss the servants before some scholars had even been served.

‘When can we expect Clippesby back?’ asked William. He rubbed his dirty hands on the front of his filthy habit, before breaking
a piece of bread and passing half to Bartholomew. ‘Personally, I think he should stay where he is for ever. The man is not
only a lunatic, but a Dominican.’ As a Franciscan, William detested Dominicans generally, and Clippesby in particular.

‘Having Clippesby incarcerated at Stourbridge hospital is highly inconvenient,’ said Suttone critically. ‘Not only does it
mean we are missing a master – and his classes still need to be taught – but it does not look good to have our Fellows declared
insane.’

Everyone except William glared at Bartholomew, who spread his hands helplessly. His colleagues were not the only ones who
had been landed with additional duties;
Bartholomew himself had been given the responsibility of looking after Clippesby’s astronomers, and fitting them into his
already crowded schedule was far from easy. ‘I am sorry but, as his physician, I am under an obligation to do what is best
for him. He is ill, and he needs to be somewhere he can recover.’

‘We are better off without him,’ declared William airily. He alone of the Michaelhouse Fellows had escaped the burden of extra
teaching, because his fanatical hatred of Black Friars was certain to cause offence to Clippesby’s Dominican students. ‘And
we should throw away the key to his cell. The man is mad, and he is where he belongs.’

‘I suppose we are lucky Brother Paul agreed to take him in,’ said Langelee, finishing his meal and wiping his lips on the
back of his hand. Michael ate faster, seeing the final grace was not far off and there was still plenty to be devoured. ‘Most
hospitals refuse to accept madmen, because they can be disruptive, and we can hardly treat him here.’

‘No,’ agreed William. ‘The man truly believes he can commune with the beasts, you know.’

‘He communes with them a good deal better than he does with his students,’ said Michael, cheeks bulging. ‘His musicians have
not read half the texts they should have learned this term, while Matt says his astronomers are sadly deficient in even the
most basic methods of calculation.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ said Langelee, not a man to be fussy about the academic standards of others when his own were so sadly
lacking. ‘I just want him back. It is not just the teaching – he is also wine steward and manages our loan chests. I have
enough to do, without adding his work to my burden. When can we expect him home, Bartholomew?’

‘When he is well again.’ Bartholomew thought, but did not say, that Clippesby might never recover.

‘He is not the only one enjoying a life of leisure while the rest of us toil,’ said Suttone, sanctimoniously disapproving.
‘Two King’s Hall masters left Cambridge in the last few days, too – right in the middle of term, and when us teachers are
at our most busy.’

‘Richard de Hamecotes and Robert de Wolf,’ said Michael immediately, to show that the Senior Proctor knew all about unofficial
leaves of absence. ‘Hamecotes left a note to say he was going away on King’s Hall business, but Wolf simply vanished. They
will both face heavy fines when they reappear.’

‘That is what comes of accepting Fellows who are deficient in Latin,’ said William, blithely unaware that most of his colleagues
considered his own grasp of the language somewhat below par, too. ‘Hamecotes and Wolf are men with heavy purses, who think
a few months at our University will advance their careers at Court. The Warden of King’s Hall takes anyone who can pay these
days, and cares nothing that his scholars do not understand a word of the lectures they are obliged to attend.’

‘They are not alone in wandering off without the requisite permission,’ Suttone went on. ‘Doctor Rougham – that surly physician
from Gonville Hall – has gone home to Norfolk, and sent a letter informing his colleagues that he would return “when he could”.
All I can say is that I am glad such presumptuous behaviour is not permitted here, at Michaelhouse.’

‘Rougham is a terrible
medicus
,’ announced Langelee in the dogmatic tone of voice that suggested disagreement was pointless. ‘I would not want him anywhere
near me, should Bartholomew be unavailable. I would sooner die.’

‘You probably
would
die, if Rougham touched you,’ said Suttone cattily.

‘Clippesby’s sin must be very great,’ said William, reverting to a topic that held more interest for him.
‘Madness is caused by an imbalance of the humours and, in Clippesby’s case, this imbalance is a direct result of an unnatural
enthralment with all seven of the deadly sins. It is the only explanation.’

‘Is it indeed?’ said Bartholomew, wishing William would keep his bigoted ideas to himself. The students were listening, and
he did not want them to think badly of a man who was simply ill.

‘Reason is the thing that ties us to God,’ William went on. ‘And all lunatics have wilfully alienated themselves from Him
by purposely destroying their powers of reason with wickedness. A soul weakened by sin is easy prey for the Devil.
Ergo
, Clippesby is the Devil’s agent.’

‘He is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly, unwilling to allow such a statement to pass unchallenged, even though he knew from experience
that there was no changing William’s mind once it was set: it was as inflexible and unyielding as baked clay. ‘His humours
are in temporary disorder, but they are being restored by diet and rest. He is
not
the Devil’s agent. On the contrary, he is a kinder, better man than many I know.’ He was tempted to add that these included
William.

‘We all croon to the College cat when it comes to sit in our laps,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘But Clippesby claims it talks
back, and
that
is what makes him so different from the rest of us. However, insanity is a small price to pay for the work he does, and I
am prepared to overlook it. I want him back, Bartholomew, preferably before the Visitation next week.’

‘I am looking forward to Archbishop Islip’s visit,’ said William keenly. ‘He will want to come to Michaelhouse – the best
of all the Cambridge colleges – and he will certainly insist on meeting
me
.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Langelee, standing to say the final grace. ‘If he thinks all Michaelhouse men are like
you, then we will
never
persuade him to become one of our benefactors.’

Summer had definitely arrived, Bartholomew realised, as he walked along the High Street with Michael. He had been so preoccupied
over the past ten days – not only with Matilde, but with the additional teaching made necessary by Clippesby’s illness – that
he had not noticed the trees were fully clothed in thick, green leaves, that flowers provided vibrant bursts of colour in
unexpected places, and that the sun shone benignly in a clear blue sky. It was warm, too, and many of the casual labourers,
who had been hired to make the town beautiful for the Visitation, had dispensed with tunics and presented pale, winter-white
skin for the sun to touch as they enjoyed their day of rest.

As they passed the Jewry, Bartholomew stole a furtive glance along Matilde’s lane. Her door was closed, and he hoped she was
managing to catch up on some of the sleep she had missed the previous night. He smothered a yawn, and wished he could do the
same. Neither the glance nor the yawn escaped the attention of the observant Michael.

‘It will not be long before the whole town knows. I thought you liked life at Michaelhouse, but if you are caught defying
the University’s prohibition against women you will lose your Fellowship
and
your students. You will be reduced to practising medicine in the town and nothing else.’

‘That would not be so bad,’ replied Bartholomew, thinking about the mountain of academic work that loomed ahead of him until
term ended. His third-year students had not finished Galen’s
De criticis diebus
, while he was still dissatisfied with the lectures his postgraduates intended to deliver on Hippocrates’
Liber aphorismorum
for their inceptions. The Regent Master who would examine them was his arch-rival Doctor Rougham, who would not
grant them their degrees unless they were perfect.