Bartholomew 11 - The Mark Of A Murderer

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘He knows the difference,’ said Agatha angrily. ‘He knows it better than you.’

  ‘You have done him a grave disservice by helping him escape, madam,’ said Michael, rounding on her. ‘Your actions may lead him to commit another crime – or one he will be blamed for, whether he is responsible or not. And Michaelhouse may be forced to bear that responsibility with him.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Langelee. ‘There goes our benefaction from Islip.’

  ‘He said he left something in your chamber, Matthew,’ said Agatha, treating Michael to a glower for his accusations. ‘He said that you would understand what it was, and that you should go to Merton Hall as soon as possible.’

  ‘Damn the man!’ exclaimed Michael furiously. ‘And today, of all days!’

  Bartholomew darted towards his room, heart pounding as he wondered what the Master of Music and Astronomy could have left for him that would induce him to go to Merton Hall. It did not bode well for Clippesby’s innocence. He wrenched open his door, then stopped in mute horror, so abruptly that Michael piled into the back of him and made him stagger. In the middle of the bed was a single object: a set of metal teeth.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘I told you so!’ gasped Michael as he hurried along the High Street with Bartholomew and Langelee in tow. ‘Clippesby is our man. All this rubbish about the wolf was a ruse. There is no wolf. If Wolf is involved, then it is as a victim, and he is floating in a well somewhere with his throat bitten out.’

  Bartholomew was finding it difficult to move as quickly as he wanted. People had poured into the town from the surrounding villages, and they blocked his way. Everyone was wearing his or her best clothes, so dull homespun browns and creams were virtually absent, and the streets were alive with tunics and kirtles of red, yellow, green, blue, orange and purple. There was a heady scent of perspiration and perfumes, and the more usual aroma of sewage was almost entirely absent. People’s faces were intense, determined to see, touch or even speak to England’s leading churchman, and Bartholomew was painfully aware that many of them would go to considerable lengths to ensure they did so. He heard townsfolk muttering about scholars monopolising the Archbishop, and scholars mumbling back that Islip’s time was too valuable to waste on layfolk. It did not bode well for the Visitation passing off peacefully.

  ‘It was not Clippesby who attacked me at Stourbridge,’ said Bartholomew, trying to move through the crowd without jostling anyone and concentrate on refuting Michael’s conclusions at the same time. ‘I was sitting on top of him when that happened.’

  ‘Dick was right: there are two of them,’ said Michael breathlessly. ‘Clippesby and someone else. I allowed myself to be influenced by your arguments, which were based on sentimentality: you are fond of the man and wanted him to be innocent. But he is not.’

  ‘All I can say is thank God you did not treat him at Michaelhouse,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps that is why he ordered his accomplice to kill you: you are the reason he was exiled to Stourbridge.’

  ‘Then why did he hit the wolf with a stone and drive him away?’ asked Bartholomew, aware of the increase in noise as Islip’s procession drew nearer. ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘That is probably how he wanted it to look,’ argued Langelee. ‘You have said all along that the killer is cunning, and Clippesby is a very clever man, for all his madness. Only a devilish mind would have thought to fish Hamecotes from the cistern and dump him in King’s Hall before Tulyet’s men reached it. And we know from Brother Paul that he has escaped several times.’

  ‘This is a damned nuisance,’ grumbled Michael, aware that his finery was becoming drenched in sweat. ‘I should be greeting the Archbishop, not chasing lunatics.’

  ‘Why does Clippesby want us to go to Merton Hall?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew. ‘He told Agatha you would understand. Do you?’

  ‘No – unless he has guessed the identity of the killer, and knows it is someone staying there.’ A sense of unease gripped Bartholomew. ‘I hope he does not attempt to confront the wolf alone.’

  ‘Clippesby is the killer, Matt,’ repeated Michael doggedly. ‘And he has summoned us to engage in some kind of confrontation, after which he imagines he will emerge triumphant. We shall have to be careful he does not draw us into a trap.’

  The bell of St Mary the Less began to toll, indicating that the Archbishop and his entourage had reached the Trumpington Gate. The massive cheer that went up from the crowd was audible, even at the Great Bridge.

  ‘He is here,’ said Langelee grimly, as more trumpets blasted. ‘A grand gate-opening ceremony has been arranged before Islip enters the town officially, which means we have about an hour before he reaches St Mary the Great.’

  ‘We must have Clippesby under lock and key before then,’ said Michael. ‘All of us – Masters, Fellows and certainly the Senior Proctor – are supposed to attend a service of thanksgiving before Islip processes to the Hall of Valence Marie for a feast. I do not want Clippesby seeing him as his own personal meal, and using his teeth on the man.’

  ‘We have the teeth,’ Bartholomew pointed out, feeling them bang up and down in his medical bag as he moved. ‘The killer cannot bite anyone without them.’

  ‘He may apply his own,’ said Michael, struggling to keep up with his more agile colleagues.

  Bartholomew saw the monk’s flushed face and heaving chest, and slowed further still, not wanting him to have a seizure. He pulled the steel fangs from his bag as he walked, and inspected them properly for the first time. They were more or less how he remembered them, although they were tarnished with age. The only difference was that the incisors had been honed to a vicious sharpness – keen enough to draw blood even from the lightest touch. They were expertly made, and the hinges on either side were well oiled and in good working order. Uncomfortably, he wondered how they had come to be in Cambridge, and kept returning to the same conclusion: Duraunt had brought them. He had not destroyed them, as he had claimed, but had kept them for some reason he had declined to share.

  They arrived at Merton Hall to find it strangely deserted. No servants were in the grounds; Bartholomew supposed they had all gone to watch the Archbishop. The silence was unsettling, and he thought Michael was right to be worried about a trap. The monk hammered on the door, then opened it when there was no answer. He leaned against a wall to catch his breath, and indicated with a wave of his hand that Bartholomew and Langelee should look upstairs. While they obliged, he used the time to inspect a pile of saddlebags that were packed and waiting by the door.

  Bartholomew and Langelee crept up the stairs and entered the hall. Bartholomew held one of his surgical knives, while the Master produced a massive ornamental dagger with a jewel-studded hilt. The hall was empty, so they aimed for the solar. When Bartholomew hauled open the door, Langelee shot inside with his weapon raised, but no one was there. The grubby possessions of Eudo and Boltone were still scattered around, but there was no sign of the three merchants or the two surviving scholars. By the time they had finished searching the house, Michael had been through the saddlebags.

  ‘These belong to Duraunt and Polmorva,’ he said, pointing at the smallest two. ‘There is poppy juice in one and an academic tabard in the other. I think they intend to slip away during the Visitation.’

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the monk was wrong, although flight at such a time looked suspicious, to say the least.

  ‘They belong to the merchants, judging by their contents,’ replied Michael. ‘Do you think this means they have a culprit to take back to Gonerby’s vengeful widow?’

  ‘You mean Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I hope they have not harmed him, on the grounds that it will be safer to take a corpse than a live victim.’

  ‘He told us to come here,’ said Langelee, annoyed. ‘But the place is empty. Was he trying to draw us away, do you think, sending us chasing shadows so he can kill the Archbishop more easily?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholome
w shortly. ‘He does not want to kill Islip. Why would he do such a thing in sight of the entire town? It would ensure he is incarcerated permanently – assuming, of course, that he is captured alive and Tulyet’s men do not shoot him.’

  ‘He is mad,’ explained Langelee. ‘He does not see things in the same light as you and I.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He wanted us here for a reason, and I will not leave until I know what it is. I am going to search the grounds. Will you come with me?’

  ‘No, I will go to tell Tulyet what has happened,’ said Langelee, beginning to move away. He called back over his shoulder. ‘If you do find Clippesby, do not let him escape again. We will send him to this hospital in Norfolk first thing tomorrow.’

  When he had gone, Bartholomew led Michael through Merton Hall’s vegetable plots. They were still and silent, contrasting starkly with the colour and movement along the High Street. A blackbird suddenly flapped away from a patch of peas, squawking its agitation and making them jump in alarm. And then it was gone, leaving them grinning in rueful amusement at the way it had startled them so badly.

  They were almost at the end of the garden, near the Bin Brook and the cistern, when they heard the first sound. It was a voice and a splash. Raising his hand to warn Michael to take care, Bartholomew inched forward, watching where he put his feet, so he did not step on a dead twig and warn Clippesby – or whoever was there – that he was coming. Michael was less cautious, and there was a loud crunch as he trod on a snail. It sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent garden, and Bartholomew turned to give the monk an agonised scowl.

  ‘That is far enough,’ said a soft voice. ‘Do not move, or it will be the last thing you do.’

  Bartholomew looked around slowly, and was startled to see a woman standing there. She wore a white wimple, while a light veil covered her nose and mouth in a fashion that had been popular among ladies some ten years before. Bartholomew looked hard at her, and saw a fair curl that was redolent of Alyce Weasenham. Her long blue kirtle accentuated the attractive curves of her sensual figure, and he was not surprised Langelee had been lured by her charms. But, at that moment, he was more concerned by the fact that she held a bow, and that she handled it in a way that suggested she knew how to use it. Around her shoulders was a quiver containing more arrows, and from its position Bartholomew sensed she could whip out a second one even as the first sped towards its target.

  ‘Where is Clippesby?’ demanded Michael. He took a step forward, then stopped when a quarrel thudded into the ground at his feet. As Bartholomew had anticipated, she had nocked another missile into her bow before the astonished monk had looked up from the spent one. ‘There is no need for that,’ he objected.

  ‘Do as you are told,’ she snapped. ‘Or the next one will be through your heart.’

  Her determined eyes, and the way her hands were absolutely steady on her weapon, convinced both scholars that she was in earnest.

  ‘Help!’ came a weak voice from the cistern. Bartholomew saw that the heavy lid preventing leaves and other debris from falling inside the well had been replaced since Tulyet’s dredging. All that was open was the square hatch, which allowed a bucket to be raised and lowered. And someone had evidently gone through it.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, taking a tentative step forward. The woman did not object, so he took another, and another, until he was able to see. What he saw shocked him.

  Four white faces gazed at him. They belonged to Polmorva, Duraunt, Eu and Abergavenny. The water was not far from the top of the well, but the walls were still slick, preventing anyone from climbing out. The lid made matters worse: it was so heavy that no one would be able to raise it from within. He heard Michael’s horrified gasp as he recalled his own recent experiences.

  ‘That witch has blocked the outflow,’ called Polmorva desperately. ‘It is only a matter of time before enough water floods in to drown us. There is no escape and we are too far away for our cries to be heard.’

  ‘There is always that nosy child,’ said ‘the witch’. ‘Perhaps his mother will bring him home from the Archbishop’s parade early, but perhaps she will not. At least you have a chance of life down there. You will die for certain if I shoot you.’ She waved her bow to indicate that Bartholomew and Michael were to join the Oxford men.

  ‘No,’ said Michael. His voice was unsteady and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘I am not going in there again. Loose an arrow at me if you will, but I will not jump in the pit.’

  ‘I will not shoot you,’ she said softly, swinging her bow round to point at Bartholomew. ‘I will kill your friend. You do not want him to die because you decline to obey a simple instruction, do you?’

  ‘Why are you doing this, Alyce?’ asked Michael, desperately trying to buy time in the distant hope that Langelee might bring Tulyet to scour Merton Hall’s grounds for the missing Clippesby. But Bartholomew knew Tulyet and Langelee thought the killer intended to strike at the Archbishop, and would never abandon their duties protecting him to engage in a search a mile away from the Visitation. ‘Are you this wolf, who kills with metal teeth?’

  ‘How is it that you think you know my name?’ she demanded in her turn.

  ‘Your veil does not hide your eyes,’ replied Michael. ‘What are you hoping to achieve by condemning us to such a dreadful death? To run off with Langelee? I can tell you now that he will not go. He likes being Master of Michaelhouse, and has already annulled one marriage to ensure he can continue. You will never be more than something pleasant to occupy his spare time.’

  ‘Shut up and get in the well,’ she ordered, beginning to draw on her bow. Her aim was unwavering, and Bartholomew was under no illusions of survival once she had loosed the thing.

  He glanced inside the cistern, and saw water lapping not far from the top. Abergavenny was struggling to hold Duraunt high enough for him to breathe, while Eu and Polmorva were gasping and retching. It was an ugly way to go, and he knew Polmorva was right: they could shout and scream all they liked, but no one would hear them, particularly on the day of the Visitation, where every soul was watching the ecclesiastical pageant and cheering at the top of his voice.

  Michael edged towards the hatch, and threw Bartholomew an agonised glance. The monk swallowed hard, and Bartholomew saw he was shaking as he sat slowly on the well’s low wall.

  ‘Where is Wormynghalle?’ the monk asked, lifting one leg so it trailed in the water. He could not prevent a shudder as wetness lapped across his foot. ‘Has he escaped? If so, then he will raise the alarm. Give yourself up, before any more damage is done.’

  ‘Wormynghalle is fetching horses,’ said Polmorva, shivering partly from the cold, but mostly from fear. He also saw the advantage of talking, to keep the hatch open for as long as possible. ‘For their escape. They are in this together.’

  ‘Wormynghalle and her ?’ asked Michael in surprise.

  Eu spat water from his mouth. ‘The tanner is too recently rich to be trustworthy. I should never have agreed to travel with such a man – such a killer.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Michael, making no move to jump. ‘Are you saying Wormynghalle murdered Gonerby, Okehamptone and Hamecotes?’

  ‘I witnessed Gonerby’s death,’ said Polmorva, coughing as Abergavenny tried to find a better way to hold Duraunt, and the water was churned into waves that slopped into his face. ‘The killer was not Wormynghalle, because I would have recognised his shape. But it could have been that witch. The villain wore a cloak with a hood, but he was the right size and height to have been her.’

  ‘Then it is good you will not live to tell anyone about it,’ she said coldly. ‘But you knew little to put us at risk. My brother and I never had anything to fear from you.’

  ‘Your brother?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘You are Wormynghalle’s sister? But he is too fat and pig-like to be related to you.’

  ‘Insult me again and I shall shoot you myself,’ came another voice from the path. The woman did not look aro
und, but moved to one side as Wormynghalle came to stand by her side. They exchanged a brief glance, and Bartholomew saw with a sinking heart that the tanner also held a bow.

  ‘I might have known your motives were sinister,’ said Eu in disgust. ‘An upstart family like yours can know no honour. You are two of a kind – ambitious, greedy and cowardly.’

  Wormynghalle raised his bow, his face flushed with fury, but his sister poked him with her elbow, and indicated he was to lower his weapon. Bartholomew was astonished that an aggressive, confident man like Wormynghalle should take orders from a woman, but she was most definitely the one in charge. The tanner hesitated for a moment, then trained the bow on Michael. His sister’s, meanwhile, had never wavered from Bartholomew.

  ‘We leave today,’ she said. ‘I can do no more in Cambridge, and it is time to go home. Now, for the last time, get in the cistern.’

  Michael lifted his other leg over the wall. ‘I cannot swim.’

  ‘Then you will die quickly,’ she replied.

  The water was now very near the top of the well, and Eu, appalled by the grim death that awaited him, decided to take matters into his own hands. Claiming that only Wormynghalles should die like rats, he grabbed the edge of the hatch and started to heave himself out, legs flailing as he fought to gain purchase. Michael scrambled out of the way as both Wormynghalle and his sister brought their bows to bear on the escaping merchant.

  ‘Cover Bartholomew,’ she snapped, when the physician, taking advantage of the diversion, ran several steps forward, intending to disarm at least one of them. Wormynghalle obeyed and Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the determined expression on the tanner’s face.

  ‘You will not kill me,’ said Eu, continuing to climb. ‘And I am weary of this charade. When I return to Oxford and report this matter to the burgesses, none of your ignoble clan will ever—’