The Mark of a Murderer (47 page)

Clippesby was sitting inside his cell. He had been reading by candlelight, and gazed in astonishment at the sudden and violent
intrusion.

‘Matt! Did you bring those books you promised? You forgot to leave them yesterday – perhaps because I was not very welcoming
when you came. I was grieving, because the wren who comes to take crumbs from my windowsill had died.’ He swallowed hard,
and a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘Died?’ asked Bartholomew warily, wondering whether Clippesby, deprived of human victims, had resorted to dispatching his
beloved animals as a means to satisfy his bloodlust.

‘The cat got her – it was my fault for encouraging her to be trusting.’ Clippesby’s voice wavered, but then he took a deep
breath and pulled himself together. ‘Put down the knife, will you? This is a small room and I do not want an accident, especially
one resulting from horseplay.’

‘I am not playing,’ said Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Let me go!’ ordered a familiar voice that shook with indignant fury. ‘Agatha?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Of course it is
me!’ she snapped, throwing him off and
adjusting the clothes he had ruffled. ‘Who did you think it was?’

‘Agatha has been bringing me food and other supplies ever since I was brought here,’ said Clippesby when all three were sitting
comfortably, and Agatha had finally, if reluctantly, accepted Bartholomew’s increasingly effusive apologies for daring to
lay hands on her person.

‘It rained when I came here last night,’ explained Agatha. ‘I was drenched by the time I returned to Michaelhouse, and my
cloak is still wet. Langelee forgot to take his with him earlier, and we are about the same height, so I decided to borrow
it. I do not think he will mind.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Master certainly would object if he thought the laundress was wearing his
distinctive clothes to conduct dubious nocturnal errands, particularly when it had led to at least one person assuming he
was up to no good.

‘I suppose you saw the garment and thought I was him,’ said Agatha, affronted. ‘I do not know how you could confuse us, Matthew.
Langelee is hefty, while I retain the slim figure of my youth.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what else to say without incriminating himself. If the truth were known, Agatha was larger
than Langelee, and there was little to choose between them from behind. ‘You hesitated when you went past the stationer’s
shop, and I concluded you were Langelee looking for Alyce,’ he added, when she looked peeved that he had not immediately agreed
with her assessment.

‘Of course I was careful when I passed
that
place,’ stated Agatha belligerently. ‘Weasenham would have invented all manner of lies, had he seen me. Did you know he has
been telling people that I seduced the Master?’

‘Has he?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled how an idle quip by Michael had taken on a life of its own in the mouths of Deynman,
William and the stationer.

‘I suppose he must have spotted me coming here one night,’ she went on. ‘However, it is Langelee who usually lingers around
that shop after dark, not me. He is conducting astrological observations that he cannot perform at Michaelhouse, because it
is too near Saturn. He told me himself.’

‘He has a lover,’ supplied Clippesby helpfully. ‘Edwardus Rex told me – he is the dog who lets Yolande de Blaston and her
family share his house. It is none other than Alyce herself, and they often meet to frolic in Weasenham’s back yard.’

‘Do they?’ asked Agatha distastefully. ‘I should have known Langelee was not hanging around at that time of night for the
benefit of his studies. Nor should I be surprised that
you
knew what he was up to, Clippesby. Very little happens that escapes your attention.’ Clippesby gestured around him. ‘And
look where it has brought me.’

‘My nephew guards the bridge over the King’s Ditch,’ said Agatha, unable to think of anything to say to comfort him, so resorting
to practical matters. ‘He knows better than to ask
me
questions, but how did you get past him, Matthew?’

‘I was quiet,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to admit to climbing down river banks and creeping through fields. ‘Does no one
else ever challenge you? You must have met soldiers or beadles at some point.’

‘A couple of watchmen looked as though they fancied their chances,’ she replied grimly, ‘but they backed off when I drew my
sword.’

‘Your sword?’ echoed Bartholomew weakly, grateful he had not confronted her on the causeway.

She hauled a substantial weapon from the belt around her waist. ‘It belonged to my father, and is no longer sharp, but it
does what I want: makes people mind their own business and leave me to go about mine.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I had no idea you were so well prepared.’

‘She has been good to me,’ said Clippesby fondly. ‘I would not have survived here without her friendly face coming to me every
night.’

‘Every night?’ Bartholomew was astounded. ‘How do you manage to leave the College without the porters seeing?’

‘Through the orchard door,’ explained Agatha. Her expression became disapproving. ‘But I am not the only one who uses it –
someone has been leaving it unbarred. Still, I thwart his nefarious plans by locking him out when I get back.’

‘That is you?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Agatha was equally astonished when she realised what had happened. ‘But you do not need to sneak around like an errant undergraduate
– Langelee has given you permission to see your patients at any time, so you can come and go as you please.’

‘He has been visiting Matilde in the Jewry,’ said Clippesby, keen to be helpful. ‘That is why he could not use the front gate.
The College cat told me all about it.’

‘Did she, indeed?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing Clippesby had heard the rumours during one of his bids for freedom.

‘William told me you were courting Matilde,’ said Agatha. ‘But I did not believe him. I know you have a liking for her, but
I did not think you would spend every night at her house for nigh on three weeks because of the damage it might do to her
reputation.’ She regarded the amber liripipe with rank disdain, and reached out to finger it. ‘This is nasty.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew tiredly. ‘It is.’

‘It will not make you more attractive to Matilde, either,’ predicted Agatha authoritatively. ‘It is not the kind of garment
she would admire. Like me, she has elegant tastes. I recommend you dispense with it, and let me sew you something more suitable.
But why have you chosen to woo the poor woman so flagrantly of late?’

‘He is doing it for me,’ said Clippesby. He started to explain with a clarity Bartholomew found disconcerting. ‘Rougham was
attacked one night by a wolf. I drove the beast away, but the poor doctor had been so badly mauled that his senses were disturbed.
Unfortunately, he then claimed that
I
was the wolf rather than his saviour. He agreed to keep his accusations to himself, but only if Matilde allowed him to recuperate
at her house, and Matthew provided the necessary medical care. I told them it was not I who did him the harm, but no one would
believe me.’

‘And that is why you are here,’ said Agatha in understanding. ‘We were told it was because your wits are awry due to the warm
spring weather.’

‘They
are
awry,’ said Bartholomew, defensive of his medical diagnosis. ‘More than usual.’

‘They are going to send you to a hospital in Norfolk,’ said Agatha to Clippesby. ‘That is why I came here tonight: to set
you free.’

‘Do not run,’ said Bartholomew to Clippesby. ‘It will only confirm your guilt in the eyes of the others, and I am still working
to exonerate you.’

‘Yes,’ said Clippesby thoughtfully. ‘You have at least tried to believe in my innocence, although I know it has been difficult
for you. But I think I will take Agatha up on her offer. I would rather be free and outlawed than living here like a criminal.’

‘But where will you go?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I have friends. Sheep are accommodating creatures, and there is a siege of herons at the river—’

‘Stop!’ commanded Agatha angrily. ‘It is when you talk like this that people doubt your sanity. You are more of an enemy to
yourself than anyone else will ever be. At least
pretend
to be normal.’

‘Very well,’ said Clippesby with a sigh. ‘I shall go nowhere very far. There are plenty of woods where I can sleep during
the day, while at night I shall go to Cambridge and try to find the real killer, since Michael seems unable to do it. It is
the only way I will ever clear my name.’

‘You cannot,’ said Bartholomew, appalled. ‘It is only a matter of time before someone associates you with these murders and
harms you. Let Michael do his work. He will find the culprit.’

‘Perhaps he will, but by that time I will be in Norfolk,’ argued Clippesby. ‘Locked away with lunatics. And Langelee may find
he prefers Michaelhouse without me, and will see my absence as an opportunity to secure himself a new Master of Music and
Astronomy. I cannot take that chance.’

‘Hide well,’ advised Agatha. ‘I will bring you several different sets of garments. Matthew believed I was Langelee, just because
I was wearing his cloak, so you should take advantage of the fact that people
look
but they do not
see
.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, standing to block the door. ‘This is madness.’

‘A poor choice of words, Matt,’ said Clippesby with a rueful grin. ‘But you are wrong: what would be madness is to stay here.
Who knows? Perhaps someone will shoot me as I am escorted into exile, just to bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion.
You obviously believed that was what Langelee intended to do, or you would not have pressed a knife to the throat you thought
was his in an attempt to save me.’

Bartholomew shook his head, and wished Clippesby was
not quite so astute. ‘Escaping will solve nothing. Let me go to Rougham and say you cannot leave tomorrow. I will tell him
you have an ague and need to rest. Then—’

‘He will know you are buying time,’ said Clippesby. He stood and walked towards the door. ‘I am leaving now. Please do not
stop me.’

‘But someone may harm you if you are caught, or the merchants may drag you back to Oxford to answer for Gonerby’s murder.’
Bartholomew appealed to Agatha. ‘Surely you can see the sense in what I say? Help me persuade him.’

‘Once he is in this Norfolk hospital, he will never be allowed out. He will talk about his animals, and the physicians there
will insist he stays, even when Michael proves he had nothing to do with biting people. Let him through, Matthew.’ Agatha’s
sword was still drawn and she waved it at him.

‘What will you do?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Stab me with it? Sit down, Clippesby, and . . .’

Clippesby turned, and Bartholomew assumed he was going to recline on his bed again, but at the last moment he swivelled around
and barrelled towards the door. The physician braced himself, but Clippesby had gathered considerable momentum, and he was
bowled from his feet. He recovered quickly, and grabbed one of the Dominican’s legs. He was far stronger than Clippesby, and
could easily have overpowered him, but he had reckoned without Agatha. She ripped his fingers away from the friar, and Clippesby
wriggled free to race down the short passage. The Dominican’s feet thundered on the stairs and then there was silence.

While Clippesby’s footsteps faded into nothing, Bartholomew tried to struggle free of the suffocating grip Agatha had managed
to secure on him, but she tightened her hold in
a way that threatened to break his neck, and he found himself growing weak from lack of air. She eased off when she heard
him choke, and, as soon as she did so, he shouted as loudly as he could, to raise the alarm. He still held his dagger, but
he could hardly stab her with it, so he dropped it and used both hands to break free. She grunted in pain as he forced her
away, and almost took a tumble. Bartholomew took a moment to ensure she was unharmed, then tore after Clippesby, almost falling
down the stairs in his haste.

Clippesby had a good start, and was running towards the dense woods that lay beyond the hospital’s fields. The Dominican was
good at hiding, and Bartholomew knew he would never find him once he had reached the trees. He ran harder, aware that Agatha
was behind him, threatening all manner of dire consequences if he did not let Clippesby go. Lights were being kindled in Brother
Paul’s house, and Bartholomew could hear the agitated, fretful voices of the inmates as they demanded to know what was causing
the disturbance.

Clippesby had just reached the edge of the copse when, by forcing a massive burst of speed, Bartholomew managed to catch up
with him. He grasped the hem of the Dominican’s flying habit and pulled hard, jerking him from his feet. Clippesby stumbled
and Bartholomew dropped on top of him, aiming to hold him down with the weight of his body until he had regained the strength
to secure him properly. Then someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head upwards in a motion that made the bones in his neck
crick in protest.

‘Agatha!’ he gasped. ‘Let go!’

But he heard Agatha bellowing in the distance, and knew she was still labouring across the uneven ground towards him. He struggled.
There was a flash of brightness in the moonlight, and something jabbed at his throat. He threw himself back, towards his attacker,
aware of Clippesby
wriggling away from under him. His assailant did not lessen his grip, and the metal glittered again as it descended towards
his neck. There was a thick, rank smell, too, that made him want to gag.

Clippesby leapt at them with a wild screech, knocking them both off balance. Bartholomew’s attacker grunted in pain as the
full weight of two men landed on top of him. The physician twisted as hard as he could, aiming to break the grip around his
throat, but the fellow held on with grim determination.

He saw a foot swing out and Clippesby reeled, stunned by a kick to the side of his head. Then the attacker turned his full
attention to Bartholomew. Yet another flash, and Bartholomew felt something tearing at him. Again, he detected the stench.
He wriggled and squirmed with all his might, determined to prevent the blade from landing on his neck. But he was running
out of strength, and the vicelike grip was depriving him of air. He became dizzy, and weaker. Stars exploded before his eyes
and he flailed around in increasing desperation as he sought to drag breath into his protesting lungs.