The Mark of a Murderer (45 page)

‘Hamecotes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Hamecotes had a penchant for green ink.’

* * *

‘Hamecotes,’ said Michael as they left the shop. ‘We know he left Cambridge – perhaps heading for Oxford – on or just after
Ascension Day. All his King’s Hall colleagues agree on that point.’

‘And it was on Ascension Day that he offered to fetch Rougham to tend Weasenham’s toothache,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Rougham
was with Matilde by then, so could not have obliged, but Hamecotes did not summon him anyway. We know this for a fact, because
Rougham’s students recorded all the consultations he missed, and Weasenham’s name is not on their list.’

‘He fetched you instead, so you would not be available to inspect Okehamptone. When I arrived – with the inept Paxtone in
tow – the Oxford
scholars
harried me to be brief. They wanted to be done with Okehamptone’s body, so they could go about the far more important business
of praying for his soul. Meanwhile, the Oxford
merchants
had some guild meeting they were desperate to attend. They were not the only ones rushing me: Tynkell did, too. He told me
to be quick, because he did not want trouble between us and Oxford so close to the Visitation. I should have resisted them
all.’

‘You probably thought Tynkell was right at the time,’ said Bartholomew soothingly. ‘You had no reason to think otherwise.’

‘That will teach me to bend to the will of others in an attempt to be placatory. I should have waited for you to become available.
But let us go back to this tale. Hamecotes ensured you were out of the way, probably hoping I would dispense with the services
of a Corpse Examiner altogether. I did the next best thing, which was to secure Paxtone’s help, not realising that he has
an aversion to cadavers, and Okehamptone went to his grave unexamined.’

‘You have left something out. The evening before
Okehamptone died, Rougham went to Merton Hall to visit him. He saw his friend through an open window, and said that although
Okehamptone might have become ill later, he was healthy at that point. In other words, Rougham did not think he was on the
brink of contracting a fatal fever.’

‘And Polmorva, who answered the door to Rougham, declined to let him in. So, is Hamecotes our killer? Did he murder Gonerby
in Oxford, then do away with Okehamptone here? We know he had Oxford connections.’

‘And then bit out his own throat, before tying a rope around his legs and hurling himself in the cistern?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I do not think so!’

‘Was it suicide, then? Because he was overcome with remorse?’

‘Can you reach your throat with your own teeth, Brother? Of course not: it is impossible. But the fact that Okehamptone, Gonerby
and Hamecotes were killed in a similar – if not identical – manner means there is certainly a connection between them. Still,
at least this exonerates Clippesby.’

‘It does not. All it does is demonstrate that Hamecotes did not want Okehamptone’s death investigated. Clippesby might still
be our man – or perhaps he was in league with Hamecotes.’

‘We cannot prove they even knew each other, let alone conspired to kill together,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And all along you
have been saying there is an Oxford dimension to these deaths. Clippesby has no links to Oxford. He loathes the place, and
never goes there.’

‘So he says, but we only have his word that he visited his father in Norfolk when he went missing in February. He may have
gone to Oxford and lied about it.’

‘So, after Hamecotes kindly helped Clippesby to conceal
Okehamptone’s murder, Clippesby killed him, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That does not make sense.’

Michael sighed. ‘Clippesby is mad, so of course he will not act in a way we can understand. But perhaps I was wrong about
this Oxford association. Hamecotes must have been taking orders from a
Cambridge
accomplice when he summoned you to Weasenham, because no Oxford stranger would know you are a diligent Corpse Examiner.’

Bartholomew scratched his head, uncertain. ‘Yes and no. Rougham knows I am careful, and may have mentioned the fact to Okehamptone,
probably as an example of the kind of colleague he is obliged to endure. Then his friend Okehamptone may have told others
– Polmorva and the merchants.’

‘Rougham,’ mused Michael. ‘That would explain why he was attacked, too. Rougham is fat, with plenty of flesh to be gnawed
through before a throat can be reached, whereas Okehamptone was thin. It is possible that Clippesby’s fangs were thwarted
by Rougham’s lard.’

Bartholomew glanced at the monk askance, thinking he would present no mean challenge to a set of teeth himself. ‘I do not
understand why Clippesby should want to attack these people.’

‘We will not agree about Clippesby, so let us leave him for now and look at the other links between our town and Oxford.’

‘Polmorva,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘He declined to let Rougham see Okehamptone, so it is clear he is involved in some
sinister way.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Michael. ‘But there is also you. You attended Merton College, and you have a previous acquaintance with
Duraunt and Polmorva. Indeed, you know Polmorva well enough to have made an enemy of him. He hates you, and you would like
to see him indicted for murder.’

‘Only if he is guilty. I would not conspire to convict an innocent man.’

Michael shook his head despairingly. ‘I have failed miserably in my training of you, if you decline to use the opportunities
that come your way to strike blows at ancient adversaries.’

‘Shall we confront Polmorva with our conclusions?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring the monk’s levity – if levity it was. ‘We may
be able to gauge whether we are close to a solution.’

‘We have not been able to gauge anything so far, and I think we should wait until we have more than a bag of unfounded speculations.
Besides, we may just frighten our culprit – be he Polmorva or someone else – and cause him to flee, or even to kill again.’
Michael sighed, and turned his mind to other matters. ‘You should visit Stourbridge today and tell Clippesby he is going on
a journey. He will certainly object, and I do not want a scene when my beadles arrive to escort him away on Monday.’

‘Me?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘It was not my idea. You do it.’

‘You are his physician. You must make him understand that this is the only way we can resolve the matter without harming him
or compromising the College. The alternative is for him to throw himself on the mercy of the judicial system, and I do not
think he should do that.’

‘No, he should not,’ agreed Bartholomew bitterly. ‘He will be found guilty just because he is different. Our society is intolerant
of those who do not conform, no matter how inane the rules.’ He was thinking not only of Clippesby, but of Joan Wormynghalle.

‘We are talking about murder here, Matt,’ said Michael sternly. ‘And they are not just simple murders, either, but ones that
show a violent hatred towards the victims. You saw those corpses, and witnessed the savagery with which
they had been defiled. I am sorry for Clippesby, but if he did these terrible things, then I do not want him in my town. Supposing
he was to take against Matilde for losing that silver dog? How would you feel if she was his next victim?’

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say.

Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the whole affair regarding Clippesby, and postponed his visit for as long as possible.
It was with a heavy heart that he set out for Stourbridge the following day, immediately after the Trinity Sunday mass. It
was a glorious morning, with birds singing shrill and sweet, the sun warm on his face, and a pleasant breeze wafting the scent
of flowers and clean earth towards him. He returned the greetings of people he knew, many of whom were out enjoying the new
glories of their freshly cleaned town. Folk were delighted by the changes, superficial though they were, and talk of the impending
Visitation was on everyone’s lips.

Bartholomew heard little of their excited babble, and felt burdened by the knowledge of what he was about to do. He walked
slowly, although he knew it would only prolong the agony. He tried to tell himself that the Dominican would be well cared
for in Rougham’s remote retreat, and that they were lucky the Gonville man was prepared to spend his own money looking after
an ailing colleague. But this did not blunt the knowledge that imprisonment was a very cruel thing to do to a free spirit
like Clippesby.

Eventually he arrived at the hospital, where he spent longer than necessary talking to Brother Paul and examining two other
inmates. When he could defer his unpleasant duty no longer, he walked to the house where Clippesby was installed, and climbed
the stairs to the upper floor. The friar’s cell was at the end of a corridor, and
comprised a small room with a single window. The window had stone mullions that were less than the length of a man’s hand
apart, so it was impossible to squeeze between them and escape; the door was secured by a hefty bar placed between two iron
wall loops, and a substantial lock. The key to the lock was on a hook outside the door, unreachable by the inmate, but conveniently
accessible to anyone bringing food.

Bartholomew was shocked by the change two days had wrought on Michaelhouse’s Master of Music and Astronomy. Clippesby’s face
was grey, and his hair was greasy and unkempt. He did not turn when Bartholomew opened the door, and did not react at all
when told the news that he was soon to be moved to a distant place, where he would never see friends or family again. Bartholomew
shook his arm, to try to gain his attention, but Clippesby simply continued to gaze through the window at the green fields
beyond, and would not speak. Finally, Bartholomew secured the door behind him, and walked back to Cambridge feeling even more
miserable than he had on the way out.

He spent the afternoon trying to concentrate on his treatise on fevers, a text that had already reached prodigious dimensions.
Writing it usually relaxed him and, although College rules forbade any kind of work other than religious on the Sabbath, he
felt the treatise was more pleasure than labour; he often spent his leisure hours scribbling down his ideas, ranging from
fevers’ symptoms and manifestations, to their treatment and how to avoid them. But even agues could not exorcise Clippesby
from his mind, and he was grateful for even the smallest interruption that day.

He spent an hour helping Deynman with ‘difficult’ spellings, giving the student his entire attention on a matter he normally
would have delegated to one of his teaching
assistants. Then he joined in a lively debate among William’s Franciscans, which focused on the work of the great Dominican
known simply as Perscrutator. William was predictably frenzied in his claims that the Dominican Order never produced good
scholars, although he was unable to refute any of Perscrutator’s arguments pertaining to the definition of the elements. A
large number of Fellows, students and commoners turned out to listen to the debate, although most were far more interested
in William’s rabid antics than in understanding Perscrutator’s complex expositions.

At the evening meal, Bartholomew was pleased to note that Michael was as good as his word and ate only a modest portion of
meat and a mere three pieces of bread. All vegetables, green or otherwise, were politely declined. That evening, when the
sun was setting, sending rays of gold and red to play over the honey-coloured stone of Michaelhouse, Bartholomew wandered
into the orchard, where there was a fallen apple tree that provided a comfortable seat for those wanting peace and silence.

He sat and stretched his legs in front of him, hoping Edith had reached London safely, and that her son was as delighted to
see her as she expected. He thought about Matilde, and recalled her laughing at something he had said; he wondered whether
she was smiling now, finding Rougham equally amusing. He considered visiting her, to ask the question that had been on his
lips so many times that week, but was still not in the mood to propose in front of an audience. However, even the prospect
of married life with Matilde could not take his mind off Clippesby, and his thoughts soon returned to dwell on the dull hopelessness
he had seen in the Dominican’s eyes.

He decided solitude was not what he needed, so went to the kitchens instead. These were off limits to scholars,
because they were the domain of the formidable Agatha; but Agatha liked Bartholomew, and seldom ordered him to leave if he
wanted company, or if he simply wanted to sit in the College’s warmest room. He was surprised when he entered the steamy,
fat- and yeast-scented chamber to find not only Michael, but Langelee, too. Agatha was in her great wicker throne by the hearth,
sewing in the fading light that filtered through the windows. The Master reclined on a bench, playing with his new astrolabe,
while Michael perched on a stool by the fire. Bartholomew was not impressed to see him devouring oatcakes thickly smeared
with salted lard.

‘I was hungry,’ said the monk defensively when he saw the physician’s disapproving gaze. ‘And anyway, these are only oatcakes.
They will not make me fat.’

‘The white grease will, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Especially in that kind of quantity.’

‘We were talking about Clippesby,’ said Michael, changing the subject as he rammed one of the oatcakes defiantly into his
mouth. ‘I confided all our suspicions to Langelee and Agatha – along with what your medical colleague in Norfolk has agreed
to do for us.’ He looked hard at his friend, to tell him that Rougham’s role in the affair had not been revealed.

‘I cannot believe Clippesby would do such terrible things,’ said Agatha unhappily. ‘He is a gentle man, not a killer. Tell
them, Matthew.’

‘I have,’ said Bartholomew, flopping on a stool next to Michael and taking one of the oatcakes. The fat was so generously
applied that he thought he might be sick, and put it back half eaten. ‘But no one will listen to me.’

‘The evidence is there, plain for all to see,’ said Michael patiently. ‘I know this is an unpleasant – and even a painful
– business, but we must be realistic. Occasionally, people change – they turn into something nasty, and Clippesby is a case
in point. He has always been strange, and we have
always been wary of him. We believed he was involved in something sinister during his first term at Michaelhouse – remember,
Matt? – so we should not be surprised to learn now that his madness has transmuted itself into something dangerous with the
passing of time.’