As the figure passed King’s Hall, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated him, and Bartholomew recognised the cloak with its rabbit-fur collar. It was Langelee, wearing the garment he had retrieved from Agatha earlier that evening. Now he could see the mantle, Bartholomew thought the figure was unmistakably the Master’s, with its barrel-shaped body and confident swagger; it was also very like Langelee not to care who saw him as he flouted University rules by striding around after the curfew. Bartholomew had kept to the shadows as he stalked his prey, but Langelee had not once glanced behind him.
Bartholomew immediately assumed that Langelee was going to meet Alyce Weasenham, and was staggered to think the Master would risk cavorting with her while her husband slumbered in the same house. Langelee reached the stationer’s shop and eased himself into a doorway opposite. From this vantage point, he proceeded to stare at the silent building for some time. Then, abruptly, he darted out and shot towards the Jewry. Before he disappeared down one of its narrow lanes he paused and looked back, as if to ensure no one was watching. Bartholomew could only suppose he was making sure Alyce did not spot him as he embarked on a tryst with another woman.
With nothing better to do, Bartholomew followed him again, and for one agonising moment thought Langelee was going to knock at Matilde’s door. But the Master did not give it so much as a glance as he strode past. Emerging from the tangle of alleys between the Round Church and the Franciscan Friary, he began to move purposefully along the marshy road known as the Barnwell Causeway. He paused at the small bridge that spanned the filthy waters of the King’s Ditch, and Bartholomew saw a guard emerge from his hut to challenge him. The murmur of soft voices drifted on the still night air, and Bartholomew supposed coins were changing hands. When the transaction was completed, Langelee began walking again, and the soldier ducked back inside his shelter.
Bartholomew hesitated. He had no money to bribe guards, and nor did he want them gossiping about how Michaelhouse Fellows shadowed their masters at odd hours of the night. If he wanted to learn what Langelee was doing, there was only one course open to him: to bypass the sentry and try to sneak across the bridge without being seen. He was not especially talented at stealth, and it occurred to him to mind his own business and go home, but Langelee’s odd mission had piqued his interest, and he wanted to know where the philosopher was going.
He walked as close to the shelter as he dared, then scrambled off the causeway to the lower ground surrounding it. He tiptoed clumsily through rutted fields until he reached the stinking black ooze of the King’s Ditch. The bridge was just above his head, so he climbed up the bank and listened hard. The soldier was singing to himself, and he concluded the man would not be doing that if he thought someone was trying to creep past him. As quickly as he could, Bartholomew darted across the bridge and dropped down the bank on the other side. He waited, breathing hard, and pondering what explanation he would give if he was caught. But the guard continued to warble, and Bartholomew felt fortunate that the fellow was so pleased with the money Langelee had given him that he had relaxed his vigilance.
After a moment, Bartholomew began to move forward again, creeping through the fields until he deemed it was safe to climb back on to the causeway. In the faint moonlight, he saw that Langelee had made good headway, and was obliged to run hard to catch up. Despite the noise he was sure he was making, Langelee still did not look around.
The causeway skirted St Radegund’s Priory, where the Benedictine nuns were known to entertain men on occasion, and Bartholomew supposed Langelee had secured himself an appointment. But the Master stalked past the convent with its untidy scattering of outbuildings and headed for the Fens. And for Stourbridge, Bartholomew thought grimly, at last understanding what was happening: Langelee was going to visit Clippesby.
Bartholomew hung back, not sure what to do. Was Langelee planning to warn Clippesby that he was about to be spirited away to a remote institution from which he would never escape? But Langelee had thought that an acceptable option the previous evening, and Bartholomew did not see why he should change his mind. Was he going to say his farewells? Langelee was an odd man, bluff and thoughtless one moment, considerate the next. Perhaps he had a soft spot for Clippesby, and wanted to wish him well before he began his exile. But what really concerned Bartholomew was a darker, more sinister option: murder. No Master wanted it said that his College had lunatic Fellows locked away in distant parts of the countryside, and Bartholomew had a sick feeling that Langelee intended to resolve the Clippesby problem once and for all.
He followed the Master to the outskirts of the hospital, and watched as he opened a gate and headed for the house that had become Clippesby’s prison. Bartholomew followed, thinking no further ahead than his intention to protect Clippesby, but bitterly aware that he would need the element of surprise if he wanted to win the confrontation. Langelee was an experienced and able brawler, and Bartholomew doubted he could best him in a fair fight. He took one of the surgical knives from his medical bag, and hoped that would even the odds – at least for long enough to allow Clippesby to escape.
Langelee crept up the stairs, and Bartholomew heard the key being taken from the wall. He winced when the wooden steps creaked under his own feet as he climbed in stealthy pursuit. He watched Langelee remove the heavy bar, then open the door to Clippesby’s chamber. He realised he would have to make his move immediately, since he did not think the Master would engage in pleasant conversation before he executed his troublesome Fellow. As quickly and as softly as he could, he sped along the corridor and burst into the room, wrapping one arm around Langelee’s throat and pressing his knife against it firmly enough to ensure Langelee would understand he meant business.
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, Agath
a 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.
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 36