The Mark of a Murderer (50 page)

Bartholomew shot her an agonised look, afraid that Rougham moving out of her house might not render her that much safer.

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘The wolf is selective. From what Matilde told me last night, he could easily have hurt
her before going after Rougham. Mercy was a mistake on his part, because it allowed her to dart up the stairs and warn him.
Think about Clippesby, too. The killer could have had him with ease – he was a tethered goat at Stourbridge – but he was only
interested in you.’

‘You cannot walk alone,’ said Bartholomew to Rougham. ‘You are too weak – and just imagine how it will look if you are found
lying in the gutter outside Matilde’s house.’

‘Not as bad as it would have done last week,’ said Rougham. He smiled, in a rare display of humour. ‘They have been cleaned
since then.’

‘We will escort you to Weasenham’s premises,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Now, before there are too many people around. But
we should hurry – folk are already beginning to gather in the Market Square, hoping Islip and his entourage will arrive early.’

Michael heaved himself up from the bench. ‘And afterwards, I shall have words with Duraunt and Polmorva. I intend to demand
the truth about these teeth.’

Matilde fetched an old cloak of Bartholomew’s, which she arranged so that it concealed Rougham’s face, and helped the Gonville
physician to the door. Michael offered to go ahead and create a diversion so that no one would notice when Rougham entered
the shop, or the direction from which he had come. The monk grinned, and informed them that he intended to lean on a set of
shelves, claiming to feel faint, and bring the whole lot tumbling down around him. He was certain the prospect of ink leaking
over valuable parchment would be more than enough to capture the gossiping
stationer’s attention – and that of any customers who might be present.

‘It is too early for trade,’ said Rougham. ‘Especially today, when everyone will be thinking about what to wear for the Visitation.’

Bartholomew waited until he saw the monk disappear inside the shop, then looked in both directions to ensure they were not
being watched. There was no movement from Weasenham’s house, so he assumed Michael’s diversion was already working. He hesitated,
loath to leave Matilde when he felt his place was at her side, in order to protect her from whoever had tried to smoke his
way inside her bedchamber. It took considerable willpower to step outside.

‘Answer the door only to Michael or me,’ he instructed anxiously. ‘And stay indoors until we come to tell you it is safe.’

‘Do not even answer it to Yolande,’ Rougham added, equally unhappy at abandoning her. ‘She is innocent of this vile affair,
but she may be used to gain access to you. Trust no one.’

It was good advice, and Bartholomew urged Matilde to heed it. She was a headstrong and determined lady, who would object to
being a prisoner in her own home, and he suspected she would not skulk inside for long. He helped Rougham into the street.
The Gonville Fellow stood unsteadily for a moment, face turned towards the pale blue sky and breathing deeply of the first
fresh air he had taken in almost three weeks. Then he bowed to Matilde, thanked her for her kindness, and began to walk as
fast as he could, aiming to put as much distance between him and her as possible before he was seen. But his scant reserves
of energy were soon spent, and it was not long before he was obliged to lean heavily on Bartholomew. They were forced to stop
altogether when
the effort made him dizzy, but eventually they reached the shop, where he stumbled gratefully over the threshold.

‘I have just returned from my home in Norfolk,’ he announced in a husky voice, trying his best to speak loudly and ensure
that all in the room would hear him. ‘The journey was long and arduous, and I have an ague. I do not think I can walk any
farther, so perhaps you would be kind enough to send for Gonville’s cart, Master Weasenham.’

‘I do not think there is any need for wagons,’ came a soft voice from the shadows. ‘You are not going anywhere today, Doctor
Rougham.’

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. He was sitting on the floor holding a hand to his bloody nose, and Bartholomew saw he had
been put there by a punch. ‘I was going to warn you, but they anticipated me before I could call out.’

‘They have loaded weapons,’ came a small, frightened voice from a stool behind the table. It was Weasenham, looking terrified
as he was held in place by a powerful hand on his shoulder.

‘Eudo!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. He saw someone else, too, moving behind him. He whirled around just in time to see Boltone
push the door shut with his foot, and drop the bar across it, securing it from within. Both he and Eudo carried crossbows.

‘I do not know why you are surprised to see us,’ said Eudo in his penetrating voice. ‘You must have known we would not stand
by and let the University defame our good names. We have been obliged to skulk in the Fens these last few days, not knowing
how to help ourselves. But now we have a plan.’

‘You did the damage yourselves,’ said Michael, probing his swollen nose with tentative fingers. ‘You are the ones
who have been stealing from people and falsifying manor records.’

‘We have not
stolen
anything,’ said Eudo indignantly. ‘And eccentricities of accounting hardly count as theft, either! Every clerk from here
to Jerusalem does that. Is that not so, Boltone?’

Boltone nodded. ‘We have been doing well for twenty years, so why should Merton choose now to move against us? Someone must
have told them – lied to them – about what we do.’

‘Well, it was not us,’ said Michael, climbing to his feet and not looking at Rougham. ‘And if you do not mind, we are busy
today. The Archbishop is due soon, and I must be there to greet him.’

‘He will have to manage without you,’ said Eudo coldly. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Weasenham said no one ever comes
to his shop this early – especially not today, when everyone is preoccupied with Islip.’

‘They were helping me,’ said Rougham, collapsing white-faced on to a bench. ‘They met me near the Barnwell Gate, and offered
to assist me on the final leg of my journey
from Norfolk
.’

‘But I saw you in Matilde’s house yesterday . . .’ began Weasenham immediately.

‘No, you did not,’ said Rougham with a conviction that Bartholomew could only admire. ‘That must have been someone else, because
I have only just arrived. I was afraid I would miss the Visitation, but I am just in time.’

‘You will not be making the Archbishop’s acquaintance, either,’ said Eudo. ‘I have reason to believe it was
you
who wrote to Okehamptone, telling tales about us, so
you
are the reason we are in this vile predicament.’

‘Did you kill Okehamptone, Eudo?’ asked Michael, before Rougham could admit to anything. ‘Did you cut his throat because he
believed you were dishonest?’

‘We have not killed anyone,’ said Eudo firmly. He indicated Bartholomew with a nod of his head. ‘Not even him, unfortunately.’

‘It was you who attacked me with the spade?’ asked Bartholomew. The weaving, cloaked figure in St Michael’s Church had been
about the right size and shape for the tenant.

‘I should have gone through with it,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘But you made me panic with all that yelling, and then the monk
came. I shoved you in the cupboard, when I should have finished the job.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What have I done to you? We barely know each other.’

‘Enough chatter,’ said Boltone impatiently, seeing Eudo ready to oblige with an explanation. He stepped towards the stationer
and brandished his bow. ‘We are short of time, so do not sit there listening to talk that does not concern you. Write.’

Weasenham flinched at the anger in his voice, and turned his attention to the parchment that lay in front of him. It was covered
in the stationer’s small, neat script.

‘I want to go home,’ said Rougham feebly. He looked dreadful, with a sheen of sweat coating his pallid face. ‘And I need my
colleagues to help me. I do not care what you are doing here.’ He attempted to stand, but Eudo strode towards him with a furious
glower and he sank down again.

‘He is ill,’ said Bartholomew, moving instinctively to stand between his patient and the felons. He had a sudden inspiration.
‘It is a contagion, contracted on his journey from Norfolk. Possibly a fatal one. You do not want him in here with you.’

‘A contagion is the least of our worries,’ said Boltone bitterly, although Eudo looked alarmed. ‘But we will not catch it
if he keeps well away from us. You two can sit next to him, and prevent him from coughing in our direction.’

‘I will stay here, thank you,’ said Michael, leaning against the shelves with his hand still clapped to his bruised face.
He had no intention of going where they could all be conveniently covered with one weapon. ‘A man with a broken nose is vulnerable
to contagions.’

Boltone should have insisted on obedience, but instead he turned on Eudo, and Bartholomew saw they were incompetent criminals.
‘I told you this was a bad idea, but you insisted it would work. Now what are we going to do?’

‘We will kill them before we leave. It is not our fault: they brought it on themselves.’

‘No,’ said Boltone, alarmed. ‘Not murder – especially of a monk! It will not matter that we are innocent of theft, if we then
commit an even more serious crime.’

‘Listen to him, Eudo,’ recommended Michael. ‘You say you have not killed anyone so far, so it would be foolish to begin now.
Let Rougham go, and we can devise a solution—’

‘We cannot be merciful. We have too much to lose.’ Eudo took a step towards Weasenham and his handsome features creased into
a scowl. ‘Write! Or I will chop off your hands.’

‘I am going as fast as I can,’ bleated Weasenham. ‘I have been scribing all night, and my fingers are so cramped I can barely
move them.’

‘You are preparing proclamations,’ said Bartholomew, craning his neck to see what Weasenham was doing. There was already a
substantial pile of sheets on the table, at least half in a different hand, and he supposed Boltone too had been writing before
he had been obliged to abandon clerkly activities to point a crossbow at Michael.

‘I
told
you to keep the door locked,’ grumbled Boltone, rounding on Eudo a second time. ‘But you would insist on looking outside
every few moments to see whether Islip had arrived, even though it is still far too early. It is
your
fault we are in this mess. I would have devised a way to explain away Chesterfelde’s blood when the Senior Proctor came prying,
but oh, no!
You
have to start a fight and we end up accused of killing Hamecotes.’

‘Write!’ shouted Eudo at Weasenham, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s accusations.

Bartholomew thought fast, rearranging facts and conclusions in the light of what he had just heard. Rougham had been wrong
to think either Eudo or Boltone was the wolf. They were exactly what they appeared: cornered petty felons. They knew something
about Chesterfelde’s death, but nothing about the others, because the wolf was clever and this pair were not. They had mishandled
the situation at the cistern, and now they had allowed themselves to become trapped in a position where they had four hostages
to manage.

‘You can still escape,’ he said in a reasonable voice. ‘Abandon what you are doing and leave. You will find another property
to run, given the number left vacant by the plague, and you can begin your lives again somewhere else.’

‘Why should we?’ demanded Eudo. ‘I will not be driven away by lies. This is my
home
.’

‘They are not lies,’ said Michael. ‘You have stolen – from people like Matilde, and from Merton – and you have been found
out. Personally, I would rather see you hang, but my colleague is offering you a chance. Take it, before you end up with a
rope around your necks.’

‘No!’ shouted Eudo. ‘None of it is true – except for the accounting, and that was Boltone.
I
have stolen nothing! I am the victim of a University plot, which blames me for its own crimes. But I have a plan. I will
exonerate myself, and everything will return to normal.’

‘These will not exonerate you,’ said Michael, picking up one of the proclamations. ‘Lies can be written just as easily
as they can be spoken, and putting pen to parchment does not produce a truth.’

‘You see?’ said Boltone. ‘I told you it would not work.’

‘People
will
believe what is written,’ insisted Eudo stubbornly. ‘Especially clerks. They will read what I dictated, and see that the
real villains are scholars – Polmorva, Dodenho and men like them.’

‘Chesterfelde visited Cambridge regularly,’ said Bartholomew, turning over what he had deduced. ‘I think it was he who helped
keep your deception from Merton for so long – for a price, I imagine. What was it? A third of the profits?’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Boltone, aghast. ‘He said he never told anyone.’

Bartholomew did not want to admit that it had been a guess. ‘You two and Chesterfelde met last Saturday night, to discuss
what to do about Duraunt’s inspection. You formulated a plan to evade exposure, and to demonstrate the depth of your commitment,
you decided to sign it with blood.’

‘To
mingle
blood,’ corrected Boltone, glowering at Eudo. ‘As a sign of undying brotherhood. It was a stupid idea.’

‘A stupid idea devised by men in their cups,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Eudo had been drinking at the King’s Head, while Chesterfelde
was drunk on wine provided by the merchants.’

‘The mixing of blood was symbolic of our loyalty,’ protested Eudo. ‘Knights do it all the time.’

‘But Chesterfelde cut himself too deeply – or you did it for him.’ Bartholomew considered. ‘No, he did it himself. The wound
was on his left wrist, and I know he was right-handed because I saw writing calluses on his fingers: he used his right hand
to slice his left arm. Blood pumped from him as he stood by the cistern, and none of you could stop it.’