The Mark of a Murderer (34 page)

‘But I cannot say for certain whether all four of those were claimed by the wolf,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just the two I was watching
when the wolf found them – Rougham and the man in the cistern – and Okehamptone, because the chickens told me about him. I
know nothing about your Gonerby, while Chesterfelde was most certainly
not
killed by the wolf.’

‘This wolf,’ said Bartholomew carefully. ‘Have you spoken to him at all?’

‘I would have nothing to say to a creature like that. I do not associate with rough beasts that kill for pleasure, only with
those who can help me understand the natural universe.’

‘Then what about the chickens?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did they talk to it?’

‘Do not be ridiculous, Brother! I have already told you that hens dislike wolves.’

‘Hopefully, Tulyet will retrieve this other body today,’ said Michael. ‘Then we might have some answers – some
rational
answers.’ He shot Clippesby a reproachful glance.

‘It happened more than a week ago now,’ mused Clippesby, lost in reverie. ‘I went to the towpath, where there are always birds
ready to talk – moorhens, geese and ducks. I met the hens, and we were appalled when our philosophical debate was interrupted
by murder.’

‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Michael with a sigh, valiantly striving to distil truth from the confused jumble of information
that Clippesby was spouting. ‘Exactly.’

‘I saw nothing, as I told you already. But the chickens saw the man’s throat bitten out.’

Bartholomew and Michael argued all the way back to Michaelhouse. Bartholomew thought Clippesby had picked up snippets of gossip
when he had escaped to wander in the town, while Michael claimed he knew too much for his knowledge to have been innocently
obtained. He believed Clippesby’s inexplicable absences from Stourbridge were proof that he was deranged enough to kill and
remember nothing later, except for the snatches of information he attributed to his animal friends.

‘You know he is good at eavesdropping,’ Bartholomew insisted. ‘He always has been, ever since he arrived in Cambridge. He
sits very still for long periods of time in odd places. He may well have witnessed these murders.’

‘I cannot believe you trust him. He is demented! You are a physician – you do not need me to tell you this. He cannot distinguish
between reality and fiction, and he genuinely believes animals talk to him.
He
is the chickens and the rats who saw these murders, and he is also the wolf that committed them.’

‘He cannot be both.’

‘Then how is he aware of the man in the cistern? The only folk who know about him are you, me and Tulyet. And the killer,
of course.’

‘Not true. All sorts of people will have heard about him by now: Dick’s soldiers, the inhabitants of Merton Hall who came
to haul us out. And what about Eudo and Boltone? They knew about the corpse, or they would not have attacked us when we approached
the place where it was hidden.’

Michael declined to be diverted. ‘Clippesby might not understand what he has done, but he is our man. I am becoming increasingly
certain of it.’

‘Well, I am not. He seems so rational at times.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I am completely out of my depth
with him, Michael. Most of the time he is gentle and innocently fascinated by the natural world, no matter how bizarre his
methods of gathering information about it.’

‘I see we will not agree until we have more evidence.’ Michael sighed. ‘I am grateful Paul has agreed to keep him under lock
and key until we tell him otherwise. It is better this way – for him as well as for us. I do not want him racing up the High
Street and biting the Archbishop of Canterbury’s throat, while the rest of us are all busily trying to impress the man.’

Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the step Michael had insisted they take, which entailed securing Clippesby in his cell
and not allowing him out to help with the other patients. Clippesby said nothing, but his eyes held an immense hurt that had
cut Bartholomew to the quick. He only hoped the case would be resolved quickly, and the Dominican could be either freed or
convicted. He was certain either would be preferable to the friar than an indefinite prison sentence. He promised to bring
scrolls, to help him pass his long hours of solitude and, on a whim, offered to find a cat or a puppy to keep him company.
Clippesby declined, claiming he would not wish imprisonment on any living thing, and that the hell visited on
him for communing with nature was his to bear alone, and not to be inflicted on other innocent creatures.

Physician and monk were still quarrelling when they met Tulyet. The Sheriff was striding along the High Street with some of
his men, all of whom were dirty, wet and scowling, and Bartholomew supposed they had just finished searching the cistern.
Tulyet did not seem overly pleased to see his friends, and Bartholomew sensed something was wrong.

‘Have you confiscated that bow from Dickon yet?’ asked Michael, either not noticing Tulyet’s cool manner or not caring. ‘If
not, I would like to borrow him for a while. There are a number of people in this town I would not mind him dispatching.’

‘Do not jest about such things,’ said Tulyet curtly. ‘There are several folk he dislikes, and my wife is terrified he may
try to shoot them, just as he did Eudo.’

‘Dickon disliked Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was not aware they even knew each other.’

‘Dickon likes to look over our boundary wall, but Eudo took exception, and words were exchanged. So were stones at one point.
I did not know about this until today, because my wife was afraid I would be angry. She says Eudo came to complain about it.’

‘Dickon lobbed rocks at him?’ Michael was amused.

‘They threw them at each other, apparently,’ said Tulyet. ‘But Dickon’s were better aimed.’

‘I am not surprised Eudo objected to a pair of curious eyes, given what has been happening around his cistern,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Clippesby claims to have witnessed a murder there a week ago, and says that was where Chesterfelde received his fatal injury,
too. But Dickon saved us with his timely arrow, and I shall always be grateful to him.’

Tulyet gave a tight smile. ‘That is the only spark of light in this nasty affair: Dickon rescued two dear friends.’

‘Twice,’ said Michael. ‘Once when he shot Eudo and drove him away, and again when he fetched you to pull us out of the well.
Has he told you about anything else he saw? I know Matt thinks Clippesby is a credible witness, who will impress any jury
with his clarity and common sense, but I would sooner trust Dickon.’

‘You could never believe anything Clippesby says,’ said Tulyet, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane himself. ‘He
told me he was a monkey last month.’

‘Did he?’ asked Bartholomew, troubled.

‘He claims the similarity between men and apes means God used the same mould when He created them. Have you ever heard such
nonsense? But I have questioned Dickon again and again about Eudo, and I still have no clear idea of what the boy saw. I suppose
it is not surprising: he is very young and has no proper concept of time.’

‘Then what did your dredging reveal?’ asked Michael. ‘Who is this man with the cut throat?’

‘No one,’ said Tulyet. ‘We emptied the pit to the bottom, and nothing was in it except mud. Either you were mistaken, Matt,
or someone was there before us and retrieved the body first. There is no corpse in the well, and no indication that there
ever has been.’

‘I do not know whether to be relieved or alarmed,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew took their leave of the disgruntled
Sheriff. ‘Without a body, we have no evidence of a crime, so I am not obliged to cram another investigation into my already
busy schedule. However, assuming you did not imagine the entire incident and the corpse really does exist, then we have yet
another mystery to look into: why did someone steal it?’

‘I hoisted it up easily enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, anyone else could have done the same once word was out that Dick planned
to drain the cistern. Eudo and Boltone could have reclaimed it before making their escape a second time.’

‘That assumes they put it there in the first place,’ Michael pointed out.

‘They must have done. Why fight us otherwise? It would not have been worth the trouble – or the risk. Boltone has a good job
as Merton’s bailiff, while Eudo is a local man with friends who say he likes living here. Neither would willingly turn outlaw
without good reason.’

‘Boltone is the subject of an enquiry. His life as a bailiff will never be the same, even if Duraunt deems him innocent, so
perhaps he thought he had nothing to lose.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘It is a pity we do not know the dead man’s identity. He was youngish, because his teeth
were white, but that is all I could tell you about him.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘You should not be too
convinced that Eudo and Boltone are responsible for this mysterious corpse. As far as I am concerned, he is Clippesby’s victim.
I imagine
he
will be pleased to learn that the body could not be found.’

Bartholomew gave a triumphant smile. ‘And that is something to consider, Brother! If Clippesby killed this man and threw him
in the cistern, then who pulled him out? The only person to benefit would be Clippesby, and he could not have done it, because
he has been locked up at Stourbridge.’

‘Then what about all the times he escaped? He could easily have gone out, retrieved the body and been back before dawn, with
no one any the wiser.’

‘How could he have known that Tulyet planned to drain the well?’

Michael sighed. ‘I imagine a robin or a weasel warned him. But I refuse to discuss this further until we have more information.’

‘And how do we get that?’

Michael tapped his temple. ‘By using our minds, as we have done on other occasions. We shall return to Michaelhouse, write
down all we know, and analyse every eventuality until we see a pattern emerge. Are you prepared to spend a morning scribing
for me? I do not trust anyone else.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And we
will
prove Clippesby is innocent.’

‘I see you intend to conduct the exercise with a suitably impartial mind.’

Since both had run out of parchment, they were obliged to visit the stationer’s premises, to buy more. The shop, strategically
sited on the High Street, was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham, Alyce and their servants
lived on the upper floor, while the lower chambers were where they manufactured their
writing materials, scribed their
exemplar pecia
, and made their sales. Bartholomew liked the shop with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink, and the warm, rich scent of new
parchment, although he was less keen on its gossiping owner. When he followed Michael inside, he saw business was good: the
place was crammed full of scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without actually buying them, some passing
the time of day with acquaintances, and others waiting to be served.

Weasenham himself stood at a table, where he showed two customers an array of pens made from swan feathers, demonstrating
how much easier they were to sharpen than those made from the more traditional goose. Alyce was near the back of the shop,
engrossed in a deep discussion with Langelee. She was laughing, and their conversation was clearly about more than the glue
Langelee was pretending to inspect. When he saw his Fellows approach, Langelee left abruptly and somewhat furtively. Moments
later Alyce followed, and Bartholomew glimpsed them both darting down the small lane that led to the rear of the house.

‘Weasenham will wonder where she has gone,’ he said, thinking the Master overly bold in his courting. By contrast, his own
meetings with Matilde were the picture of discretion – he had certainly not frolicked with a married woman in broad daylight,
and in her husband’s own back yard.

‘He is run off his feet with customers,’ said Michael, amused. ‘He will not know whether she is here or not, so it is an excellent
time for Langelee to seduce his wife. Do not look so disapproving, Matt, given what you have been doing of late.’

‘You know what I have been doing,’ said Bartholomew, offended. ‘And it is not—’

Michael nodded towards the stationer. ‘Weasenham’s current customers are Dodenho and Wormynghalle.
Dodenho is fussy and pompous, and will keep him busy for hours with his exacting demands, while Wormynghalle probably takes
his pens as seriously as he does the rest of his studies. Langelee is a genius to choose now to seduce Alyce.’

Bartholomew craned his neck to peer through the freestanding shelves, and saw the stationer was indeed serving the two scholars
from King’s Hall. He could hear Dodenho’s braying voice as he demanded the best quality equipment, anxious that everyone should
know him to be a man of means and good taste. Wormynghalle gave her full, quiet attention to the task in hand, and her face
was intense as she considered the writing implements Weasenham displayed. Bartholomew saw that the incident in Paxtone’s room
had unnerved her, because she had been to even more trouble to render herself masculine. She had dirtied her clothes to emulate
her more slovenly colleagues, and there was grime under fingernails that had previously been clean. She also had a brazenly
feminine silk glove tucked into her belt, proclaiming to all who saw it that she kept a female lover. Michael saw it, too,
and Bartholomew was certain it would result in a fine.

A group of Bartholomew’s students were on the premises, too, under the loose supervision of Deynman and Falmeresham. They
were assessing the cost of vellum, to use for the short treatises they were obliged to produce by the end of the term. Deynman
had already purchased the most expensive kind, no doubt hoping that its superior quality would detract from the poor standard
of what was written on it. The atmosphere was jovial, with light-hearted banter that resulted in a lot of laughter.