The Mark of a Murderer (49 page)

‘Always,’ said Bartholomew. They were silent for a moment, as each considered the enormity of what Bartholomew was about to
do. He would have to start hunting for patients who could pay him, and would have
no time for his treatise on fevers. Meanwhile, Michael thought about how different life would be for him, too, and realised
how much he had come to rely on the physician’s insights and help in all manner of ways.

‘Did Matilde see who broke into her house?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his mind away from the future. ‘And what about Rougham?
Did the killer come to complete what he started two weeks ago?’

‘I think that is exactly what he was doing,’ said Michael soberly. ‘It happened at midnight precisely, because Matilde heard
handbells jangling inside All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. Rougham escaped unharmed, too, although the shock has not been good for
him.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘The wolf was busy last night. He must have gone directly from Matilde’s house to Stourbridge.’

‘The wolf?’ echoed Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head, impatient with himself. ‘That is what Clippesby calls him. I am sorry, Brother. He used it so
often last night that it rubbed off on me.’

‘You went to see Clippesby?’ asked Michael warily. ‘In the middle of the night? With a killer on the loose, who may decide
you are to be next?’

Bartholomew described what had happened, leaving out only the fact that he had hidden Clippesby in a place only he and Agatha
knew. Michael immediately jumped to the conclusion that Clippesby had been afraid the Oxford merchants would hang him, and
had fled the area completely. Bartholomew said nothing to disabuse him of the notion.

‘Damn! The Archbishop is due this afternoon, and we shall have to welcome him knowing there is a killer stalking our streets
with a metal dentition. I hope to God this wolf does not have designs on Islip, because, if he strikes, our University will
be suppressed for certain. I know
Canterbury became famous after the murder of Thomas à Becket, but I do not want Cambridge to be known for killing archbishops,
too.
We
do not have a cathedral.’

‘I do not think the wolf wants Islip,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? You think this murder and mayhem just before the Visitation is coincidence? Well,
you are wrong. I believe he is following a very specific agenda, which includes making Cambridge appear every bit as unstable
and riotous as Oxford. Thus, he may well strike at the Archbishop. But we should go to see Matilde. She is worried about you.’

‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that Michael’s good intentions regarding his diet had already floundered once
in the face of his appetite.

‘Yes,’ said Michael, taking his arm. ‘I want Rougham back at Gonville before any more of the day passes – for all our sakes.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘Matilde was sleeping on a bench in her parlour, while Rougham had the bed in the upper chamber. She fled upstairs when the
wolf burst into her house, and together she and Rougham barred the door and managed to keep him at bay. He tried to smoke
them out by lighting a fire under the door, but you had insisted that bowls of water be left upstairs lest Rougham’s fever
returned, and they were able to douse the flames before they did any serious harm.’

Bartholomew set a cracking pace along the slowly lightening streets. He left Michael far behind, puffing, wheezing and complaining
that such frenzied activities were not good for a man with an empty stomach. When Bartholomew reached Matilde’s house, he
hammered furiously on her door, not caring that Weasenham’s window shutters immediately eased open. She opened it, a little
angrily, to see who was waking her neighbours with his
racket, and he shoved his way inside and took her by the shoulders, looking her up and down in concern.

‘I am all right,’ she said, smiling reassuringly.

‘And so am I,’ said Rougham wryly, aware that his colleague had not so much as glanced in his direction. ‘Together, we managed
to repel whoever burst in last night. We were fortunate Matilde is a light sleeper, or who knows what might have happened?’

‘Doctor Rougham tore a sheet into pieces, and was going to lower me on to the roof of the house next door,’ said Matilde to
Bartholomew. Her face was pale; glancing up the stairs, Bartholomew saw black marks where the killer had set his blaze. There
were deep grooves in the door, too, as if he had used an axe. ‘We were becoming desperate.’

‘And who would have lowered you to safety?’ asked Bartholomew of Rougham.

‘I was going to fetch the de Blaston family,’ said Matilde weakly. ‘That was the plan we agreed on as we struggled to quench
the flames: I would run for help, and return to rescue Master Rougham.’

‘Yes,’ said Rougham softly, and Bartholomew saw he had not expected her to be in time. He had been ready to sacrifice himself
to save the woman he had come so suddenly to respect and admire.

‘Weasenham,’ said Bartholomew heavily, thinking about what must have happened. ‘He saw you in Matilde’s window the other day,
and he must have chatted about it to his customers – one of whom is the killer, and who decided to come and finish what he
had started.’

‘Probably,’ said Rougham tiredly. ‘I did not see the fellow’s face last night, but I can tell you with absolute certainty
that it was not Clippesby – he moved in a completely different way – slower and less graceful. Do you have any other ideas,
now my main suspect is exonerated?’

‘None at all,’ lied Bartholomew, refusing to entertain the possibility that Duraunt could be the culprit. ‘But I know more
about the teeth that were used on you now. They are metal, devised by an Oxford scholar many years ago, to help edentulous
people to eat.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Rougham, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘False teeth. But metal will be hard on ancient gums,
and what will fit one man will not match another. They would have to be individually tailored. How were they made? Were there
two separate pieces for upper and lower fangs, or were they linked?’

‘Linked,’ said Bartholomew. He remembered them vividly. ‘With a hinge on either side.’

‘Did they work?’

‘Not very well. But these have been adapted for use as a killing weapon, because I am sure the originals were not honed so
sharp. Someone came after me with them last night – after he realised he would have no luck here.’ He glanced at Matilde.
‘The thick material of that liripipe saved me.’

‘My recollection of the night I was bitten is hazy, as you know,’ said Rougham thoughtfully. ‘I remember falling over and
I certainly remember the agony, but the attack itself is a blur until I saw Clippesby standing over me. But your words have
sparked a dormant memory. I did see a metal object during the fracas, just before the searing pain in my shoulder. It may
well have been these teeth, and that would explain why they did me so much damage.’

Bartholomew thought about his shredded hood. ‘Excrement was smeared on them, too.’

‘To be certain of causing an infection, should the injury not prove instantly fatal,’ mused Rougham, understanding at once.
‘What does this mean? That our killer is a physician, because he knows how to make a wound turn rotten? It is not you or me,
so we are left with Paxtone
or Lynton. Lynton is too old and lazy for such activities, which leaves . . .’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Paxtone.’

‘He
is
at King’s Hall,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘So was Hamecotes.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, appalled that another person he liked should be accused. ‘It is probably someone from Oxford.
Polmorva, who owned the teeth. Or . . .’ He trailed off.

‘Or who?’ asked Matilde. ‘Duraunt? Your kindly old teacher, who drinks heavily in taverns and who lies about his love affair
with soporifics? The man who seems rather too friendly with that nasty Polmorva, and who has a will of iron under that oh-so-gentle
exterior?’

‘Poppy juice and wine is a powerful combination,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘They could change him from a kindly ancient
into something savage.’

Bartholomew recalled the demonic strength of the hands around his throat, and the grim determination of the wolf to rip his
skin with the filth-smeared teeth. ‘He is not strong enough.’

‘Not even when intoxicated?’ pressed Rougham. ‘Your experience as a physician will have taught you that even the meekest of
men can turn into raging lions when they swallow dangerous remedies.’

‘I know, but . . .’ said Bartholomew, feeling exhaustion wash over him as his conviction in Duraunt’s innocence began to waver,
‘…but I do not believe it of him.’

Rougham laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in the first gesture of friendship he had ever offered, while Matilde took
his hand and raised it to her lips. He looked into her eyes and was suddenly overwhelmed with the utter conviction that it
was the right time to ask her to marry him, whether Rougham was present or no.

‘Matilde,’ he began. ‘Will you …?’

‘Lord!’ puffed Michael, gasping for breath in the doorway. ‘I am exhausted after that run!’

Michael waddled across the room and flopped on to a bench, where he sat fanning himself with his loose sleeve. Matilde released
Bartholomew’s hand and went to fetch ale to help him recover, while Rougham lowered himself on a bench, wincing at the pain
in his injured shoulder.

‘Well?’ Michael rasped. ‘What have you deduced? Have you solved the case? Who is the wolf? You had better hurry with your
analysis, because Islip will arrive in a matter of hours and we do not have time to waste. Who might have a reason to kill
you, Rougham? We know it was not Clippesby, so who else could it be?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Rougham. ‘And believe me, I have thought about little else these last few days. I have not lost any
patients recently, so it cannot be a grieving relative. I am on reasonable terms with my colleagues at Gonville – we have
our disagreements, but none are serious. I confine my amorous adventures to Yolande de Blaston, and I always pay handsomely
for the privilege. And I owe no one any money. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm me.’

‘What about your student, William of Lee?’ wheezed Michael. ‘He thinks you are a hard taskmaster, and says you are never satisfied
with him, no matter how hard he tries.’

Rougham sighed. ‘Some students respond to encouragement, and others need criticism to produce their best work. Lee is one
of the latter. If I do not monitor him constantly, he grows lax. But I do not ride him hard enough to make him want to kill
me.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, aware that students were sometimes delicate creatures, whose feelings were easily hurt. Insults
were often felt more deeply in the young
than in older, wiser people, who had learned that they could not please everyone all of the time. But did Lee have the intelligence
to kill and hide his tracks? And why would he have been in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, when the whole business seemed
to have started, not to mention managing to lay his hands on the metal teeth? Lee as the wolf did not make sense, so Bartholomew
eliminated him from his list of suspects, resigned to the fact that, once again, it comprised Polmorva, Dodenho and some of
his colleagues from King’s Hall. And Duraunt.

‘What about Boltone?’ suggested Rougham, racking his brains. ‘He knows Oxford, since he is employed by Merton College, and
he makes journeys there to present his accounts. I know, because he is my patient, and he has told me. He may have found these
teeth and killed Gonerby.’

‘We asked if he had been there recently, and he said he had not,’ said Michael.

Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Well, he is hardly likely to admit to a February visit, if he had murdered someone. And besides,
he is not an honest man. You know that for yourselves, because Duraunt is here to inspect his dubious accounting – and do
not forget that he was caught virtually red-handed with that treasure hoard in the cistern.’

‘But if Boltone is the wolf, why has he started his murderous spree now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not years ago? And what
is his motive?’

‘You can ask him that when he is caught,’ said Rougham. ‘And he
will
be caught, because he will not go far. Cambridge is his home and I do not see him leaving to start a new life elsewhere.
He and Eudo will be in the Fens together, waiting until the hue and cry has died down. Then they will return, and set about
proving their “innocence”.’

‘But why would they harm
you
?’ asked Michael, puzzled.
‘Are you saying Boltone hates his physician enough to make two attempts on his life?’

‘I do not know,’ said Rougham wearily. ‘Perhaps it was because I once wrote, in a letter to my friend Henry Okehamptone, that
Boltone was a dishonest sort of fellow and that Merton College would be wise to examine his accounting.’

Michael stared at him. ‘You did that? Then he
does
have a motive to kill you: revenge.’

‘It was more than a year ago,’ objected Rougham, ‘and I thought no more about it until today.’

‘We must move you as soon as we can,’ said Bartholomew, aware that time was passing. ‘You are not safe here. We can discuss
Boltone later, when you are home.’

Rougham nodded weakly. ‘I have imposed myself on Matilde long enough. I cannot walk far, but I think I can reach Weasenham’s
shop.’

‘Why there?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘I have a plan,’ said Rougham.

‘Will you tell us what it is?’ asked Michael, when the Gonville man said no more. ‘I would sooner know what you have in mind
before we help.’

‘I shall decline your assistance,’ said Rougham softly. ‘You have done more than enough for me already, and I refuse to have
this wolf stalking you, when it is me he is after.’

‘It is too late for that,’ said Michael. ‘He almost had Matt last night.’

Rougham sighed with genuine regret. ‘Quite. And I do not want you taking more risks on my behalf. So, I will walk – alone
– to Weasenham’s shop, where I will ask him to send one of his lads for my College’s cart. I will ensure he knows I am going
to Gonville, because then he will tell everyone I am home, and the wolf will not bother Matilde again.’