The Mark of a Murderer (33 page)

‘I am sorry you have to be here,’ said Bartholomew sincerely. ‘But Paul tells me you made a bid for freedom on Tuesday night
and were gone until dawn the following day. Why?’

Clippesby shrugged. ‘Why do you think? I have been here fifteen days now, and I am bored. I went for a walk, although I cannot
tell you where. I just followed a mouse.’

‘A mouse,’ said Michael flatly.

‘Well, a field mouse, naturally,’ elaborated Clippesby. ‘But you would know that, of course. One is hardly likely to find
a dormouse with time on her hands at this time of year!’ He laughed, to indicate he considered the notion preposterous.

‘Did this mouse eventually lead you to Cambridge?’ asked Michael. ‘To St Michael’s?’

‘I do not recall,’ replied Clippesby. ‘I was too absorbed in what she had to tell me.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘It was nothing to do with the gnawing of throats, was it? Or the wielding
of spades?’

‘Hardly!’ said Clippesby, startled. ‘Her conversation was rather more genteel, and involved a discussion between St Benedict
and his holy sister St Scholastica three days before her death.’

‘Scholastica?’ echoed Michael immediately. ‘Did this mouse mention riots, by any chance? On Scholastica’s feast day in Oxford?’

‘She did, but those are of scant importance when compared to the dialogue between the two mystics. I am sure you are aware,
Brother, that no one knows exactly what was discussed the night Scholastica summoned a great storm to keep her brother from
returning to his monastery – so he would stay with her. But the mouse knew.’

‘This mouse must be a considerable age,’ said Bartholomew, amused. ‘This alleged conversation is said to have taken place
eight hundred years ago.’

‘She did not hear it herself,’ said Clippesby, irritated by the lack of understanding. ‘It was witnessed by an ancestor, and
the information has been passed through the family from century to century. The same sort of thing happens with humans. Generations
of first-born Clippesbys have been called John, to name but one example.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘What did St Benedict and his sister talk about that stormy night? What they were going to have for
breakfast?’

‘That would no doubt be
your
choice of subject,’ replied Clippesby crisply. ‘But pious folk are not obsessed with such earthly matters. Benedict and Scholastica
talked about the power of creation, and how one life is so small and insignificant compared to the living universe.’

‘Well, that very much depends on whose life we are talking about,’ said Michael, smarting over the accusation that he was
venally minded. ‘For example, I would not consider Matt’s unimportant, and someone tried to take it before dawn on Wednesday
morning.’

‘Really?’ asked Clippesby, his eyes wide. ‘How terrible! But you are unharmed, so whoever tried to rob you was unsuccessful.’

‘How do you know it was a robber?’

‘Why else would anyone attack him?’

‘Have you encountered two men called Boltone and Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby was not going to admit to being
in St Michael’s at the time of the attack – if he even knew. But the mention of robbers had brought to mind the dishonest
residents of Merton Hall.

‘The Merton Hall chickens detest Boltone,’ replied Clippesby. ‘They say he has been cheating his masters for years. Meanwhile,
Edwardus Rex, the dog with whom Yolande de Blaston lives, tells me that Eudo may have stolen the silver statue I gave to Matilde.’

Michael nodded. ‘It seems he took it when he visited her to get a remedy for women’s pains – for the wife he does not have.’

‘Many men do that,’ said Clippesby. ‘Matilde is good and generous, and people trust her. You should marry her, Matt, before
someone else steals her heart.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, aware that Clippesby was regarding him expectantly. He hesitated, on the verge of confiding his
decision to make her his wife, but then Clippesby’s attention was snatched by a flock of pigeons landing in the yard, and
the moment was lost.

‘Do your chickens know anything about an astrolabe owned by Geoffrey Dodenho?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘It was sold to someone
at Merton Hall.’

Clippesby shook his head. ‘No, but the King’s Hall rats
told me that Dodenho claimed it had been stolen by another Fellow – probably by his room-mate, who is called Wolf – but that
he suddenly went quiet about it. They think he later found it again, but because he had made such a fuss about its “theft”,
he was obliged to sell it – so he would not have to apologise for making unfounded accusations. The rats say
that
is why Wolf ran away: he did not like being considered a felon.’

‘When you say “King’s Hall rats” are you referring to small furry rodents or to men in tabards?’ asked Michael cautiously.

‘Rodents, of course,’ said Clippesby, annoyed. ‘I do not insult rats by likening them to people.’

‘Do they or the chickens know anything about Eudo or Boltone?’ asked Michael. He sounded uncomfortable, unsure of how to deal
with the strange realities of Clippesby’s world.

Clippesby scratched his head. ‘I do not think so, but I can ask. The problem with hens is that they are not always interested
in the same things as us, and one needs to question them very carefully to determine whether or not they know anything of
relevance. It is quite an art.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I have encountered similar problems myself. But I need to ask you more questions,
if you have no objection. Matt and I have been investigating a very complex case, and you may be able to help us.’

Clippesby nodded sombrely. ‘Of course. I am always willing to be of service to you, although you should be aware that a
desire
to help is not the same as being
able
to help. But ask your questions, and we shall see. As the hedgehogs of Peterhouse always say, if you do not ask, you will
not receive.’

‘Right.’ Michael cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Where did you go in February, when you abandoned your teaching for ten days
without permission?’

‘You have already fined me for that,’ said Clippesby, immediately defensive. ‘You cannot punish me twice for the same offence.
Besides, I told you what happened: an owl came and told me my father was ill, so I went without delay to visit him in Norfolk.’

‘Norfolk?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Oxford?’

Clippesby grimaced. ‘Certainly not. I dislike Oxford, and would never go there willingly.’

‘Was your father unwell?’

‘No,’ admitted Clippesby. ‘The owl must have confused him with someone else.’

‘Then what about your more recent absences? Where were you on the eve of Ascension Day?’

‘That was the night Rougham was attacked and I saved his life,’ replied Clippesby resentfully. ‘I wish I had not bothered,
because then I would not be incarcerated here. However, I do not recall exactly where else I was that evening. You had plied
me with too much wine earlier, Brother, and my wits were addled.’

‘That had nothing to do with the wine,’ muttered Michael. ‘Then what about last Saturday?’

‘You think I had something to do with the murder at Merton Hall – the man with the cut wrist?’ asked Clippesby. He saw Michael’s
surprise that he should know about Chesterfelde, and smiled enigmatically. ‘The chickens mentioned what had happened – I told
you I am friendly with them. But I did not kill anyone, Brother. I do not waste time with people when there are animals to
talk to. What
they
say is worth hearing, unlike the vicious ramblings of men.’ Abruptly he turned his attention to Bartholomew, who was simultaneously
disconcerted and startled by the penetrating stare. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping he did not. He had lost interest in the discussion, and his thoughts
had turned to Matilde. In the dusty gloom of Clippesby’s chamber he had reached a decision, and he knew with absolute certainty
that it was the right one. He would marry Matilde. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, and his Fellowship was
a small price to pay for the honour of spending the rest of his life with such a woman. His mind now irrevocably made up,
he felt strangely sanguine about the University and its various mysteries. It occurred to him that he should probably confide
his plans to Matilde before resigning and making arrangements to secure them a house, and determined to do so at the first
opportunity. He did not countenance the appalling possibility that she might decline his offer.

Clippesby frowned slightly, noting the distant look in his colleague’s eyes. ‘I know what you think about me,’ he said, correcting
himself.

‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew pleasantly, ready to embrace the whole world in his new-found happiness and serenity.

‘You order me to stay here, because you say folk do not understand my kinship with animals and you are afraid someone may
hurt me. But the reality is that
you
are one of those people. You may not wish me harm, but you no more understand my relationship with the natural world than
they do. You are just like them, only you hide your opinions behind a veil of concern.’

‘He is worried about you,’ said Michael gently, while Bartholomew gazed at him in dismay, uncomfortably aware that he was
right. His brief surge of bliss vanished, leaving him with the sense that he had let Clippesby down. He did not understand
him, and was probably no better than others in that respect – worse, even, because his inability to physic him had led to
his incarceration.

‘And
you
want me here because you are afraid my idiosyncrasies might reflect badly on Michaelhouse when the
Archbishop comes,’ said Clippesby, rounding on the monk. ‘You are afraid I will say or do something that will make us a laughing
stock. After all, what College wants a Fellow whose behaviour is so unlike anyone else’s?’

‘You are right,’ agreed Michael bluntly. ‘I
was
relieved when Matt suggested you come here for a few days. The Visitation is important, and I cannot risk anything or anyone
damaging our prospects.’

Clippesby laughed harshly. ‘Honesty! Well, at least that is refreshing. But you need to open your mind, Brother. Just because
I do not distil my knowledge from books does not make me insane.’

‘Talking to animals is not something normal men do,’ said Michael with an unrepentant shrug.

‘Saint Francis did it,’ countered Clippesby. ‘And no one accused him of madness.’

‘He was
kind
to animals – he did not ask their advice and repeat their philosophical theories. There is a difference. But this debate
is going nowhere, because we will never agree.’

‘No,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘We will not. So, what will you do? Lock me here until I conform to your way of thinking and
admit I am wrong? Send me to some remote parish, where I will never see an Archbishop’s Visitation? Or slit my throat and
be rid of the embarrassment permanently?’

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, appalled he should think they would consider such dire options.

‘No?’ asked Clippesby sharply. ‘No what? No to murder or exile, or no to letting me return to my duties at Michaelhouse?’

‘No to the latter, and that is for certain,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Two men, possibly more, have died from peculiar wounds
and Rougham was seriously injured. He says he
saw
you attack him, so you are currently at the top of my list of suspects. I want you to remain here until you are
either exonerated or we have positive proof of your guilt. Only then will we discuss what to do next.’

‘I have not killed anyone,’ reiterated Clippesby angrily. ‘I cannot imagine why you insist on believing Rougham over me, when
you know what the man is like. He lies. Have I ever lied to you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Michael. ‘But I never know when to believe you. Sometimes you speak gibberish, while other times you make
perfect sense.’

‘I will stay,’ said Clippesby, gesturing to his bed. ‘But you will find I have nothing to do with these crimes. When you do
– and only then – we shall talk sensibly, and discuss how best to live with each other’s oddities.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Some of us are more odd than others, so will have to make bigger concessions.’

Clippesby smiled. ‘I am willing to be flexible, Brother. However, it is not
your
gross eccentricity I was referring to. It is Father William’s.’

‘Now there we do agree. I just have one more thing to ask. When you talked about us keeping you here or killing you, why did
you select a slit throat as the means of execution?’

‘Because that is what I saw the wolf trying to do to Rougham,’ replied Clippesby. ‘And then there was the man in Merton Hall’s
cistern.’

‘What man?’ asked Bartholomew, an uneasy feeling beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach.

‘The one who died near the well,’ elaborated Clippesby patiently. ‘There was him a week or so ago, and there was Chesterfelde
on Saturday night.’

‘Chesterfelde?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the sudden stream of information. ‘You saw what happened to him? But you just
said you did not.’

‘No, I told you I did not
kill
him,’ corrected Clippesby pedantically. ‘However, I did not see what happened,
because I could not bring myself to watch. You know how I deplore violence. The hens were braver: they saw his wrist cut,
resulting in his death. The first man was different, though, because it was his
throat
that was gashed, not his arm.’

‘The first man,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You mean Okehamptone?’

‘No, Okehamptone died when the wolf had him – the chickens told me about it. Chickens do not like wolves. I am talking about
the man who was put in the cistern
after
Ascension Day.’

‘He is talking about the body you found when you were rescuing me,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, although the physician did
not need him to state the obvious. ‘We have four victims with throat injuries now: Gonerby, Okehamptone, the cistern man and
Rougham.’