‘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.’
‘Wha
t 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.’
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.’
Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer Page 38