Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Bartholomew closed his eyes. Deynman’s brief foray into accurate understanding had been too good to be true. Once again, certain points had stuck in his mind, but had then rearranged themselves in a way that allowed him to draw some very bizarre conclusions.

‘Dominicans are afflicted with haemorrhoids,’ declared William matter-of-factly, indicating that he was listening to other lectures, too, as he cut across Falmeresham’s spirited defence of dogs and Dominicans alike. ‘It comes from sitting in cold, dark places while they plot their satanic acts. And that is what makes them morose and melancholy.’

‘Galen says that the removal of organs that contain blood – such as veins and haemorrhoids – might cause black bile to get the upper hand in the balance of the humours and bring about melancholy,’ said Falmeresham, deciding that taking issue with William was a lost cause. ‘He is referring to a loss of vessels causing the imbalance; he is not saying patients become depressed because they are sorry to see their haemorrhoids go.’

‘Dominicans are proud of these marks,’ William went on. ‘It is the communal suffering they endure that makes their brotherhood so powerful. After all, what more shameful secret can you share than intimate knowledge of each other’s haemorrhoids?’

‘I cannot teach in here,’ said Bartholomew abruptly, gathering his books and heading for the door, indicating that his students were to follow. ‘I am going to the orchard. It may be cold and it may even rain, but at least I will not have to do battle with this kind of rubbish.’

‘Dominicans such as Clippesby,’ said William loudly, ‘who lounges comfortably in his hospital, while his hapless colleagues are compelled to do his work.’

‘Is that the reason for Clippesby’s absence?’ asked Deynman, wide eyed. ‘Haemorrhoids? I thought it was insanity.’

‘I will come with you, Matthew,’ announced William, preparing to follow the physician outside. ‘It is too hot in here. Besides, I will be able to speak properly in the orchard – I am tired of being forced to whisper all the time.’

Langelee gave a startled gulp of laughter, which encouraged his students to join in, and the hall was soon filled with hoots and guffaws, while William’s face expressed his total bemusement.

‘He really has no idea,’ said Wynewyk to Bartholomew in wonderment. ‘Is he quite normal, do you think? He accuses Clippesby of madness, but there are times when I think he is worse.’

‘You go,’ said Langelee to William, stepping forward to take control and wiping tears from his eyes. ‘You are right, Father. It is stuffy in here, and it is a shame you are obliged to speak softly. Sit in the orchard and expound your theories so they can be properly heard.’

‘They will be heard in Ely,’ said Michael in alarm, as the friar left with his reluctant students in tow. ‘And worse, at the Dominican convent! We will have enraged Black Friars at our gates within an hour, and you know how keen I am to keep the peace until the Visitation is over.’

‘The Dominicans are perfectly aware that William’s opinions do not represent our own,’ said Langelee, relieved to have the Franciscan gone. ‘Besides, would you really object if they silenced him by force? I would not. He is becoming a liability with his stupid ideas and braying voice. Perhaps we should summon a few Dominicans to shut him up – preferably before he has an opportunity to regale the Archbishop with his nasty theories.’

Michael sighed, unable to answer. It was a good deal quieter in the hall without William, and Bartholomew made rapid progress on Galen and black bile. Even Deynman seemed to have improved by the end of the lesson, and the physician was encouraged. He spent the second half of the afternoon teaching a combined class of his own students and Clippesby’s how to calculate the speed of the planets through the sky using different geometrical techniques. Afterwards, leaving the students reeling from their mental exertions, he visited Rougham, and was pleased to find him sleeping peacefully.

Matilde was sleeping peacefully, too, so he crept out of the house so as not to disturb her, knowing that neither patient nor nurse would require his services that night. Rougham would soon be gone from her life and at that point, Bartholomew decided, they would discuss the future, and whether it would be one they might share. He returned to Michaelhouse, read until he started to feel drowsy, then went to bed, where he slept deeply and well.

Michael cornered Langelee the following morning, and confided that he was now seriously worried about the Oxford murders and the damaging effect they might have when the Archbishop arrived in three days’ time. Unlike Bartholomew, he had slept fitfully, and Gonerby, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde had paraded through his mind like lost souls. His beadles informed him that the merchants had been at the Cardinal’s Cap the previous evening, and had befriended a number of locals with their deep purses: the resulting discussion had included the notion that the University might be harbouring a killer. Rougham’s medical students had overheard, and there had been an unpleasant exchange of words before the beadles were able to remove the scholars and fine them for drinking in a tavern.

Langelee was a practical man, ambitious for his University, and he desperately wanted Islip to found his new College in Cambridge. He understood perfectly that three tradesmen hunting a scholar for murder would not make for peaceful relations, and was willing to do whatever was necessary to help. He immediately agreed to release Michael and Bartholomew from their teaching until the Visitation was over. Bartholomew was not pleased to be informed that his classes were to be suspended while he chased killers, but appreciated the now urgent need to solve the case before the Visitation. Langelee ordered the fiscally talented Wynewyk to manipulate the College finances so that two postgraduates could be paid to stand in for the absent masters, and Bartholomew set his students an unreasonable amount of work, hoping they would become alarmed by the number of texts they would eventually need to master and would settle down to some serious study.

First, Bartholomew and Michael decided to see Clippesby at Stourbridge. The physician wanted to assess whether it was he who had attacked him in St Michael’s Church, while Michael was keen to question him about the deaths of Okehamptone and Gonerby. When Langelee urged Bartholomew to bring Clippesby back, sane or otherwise, Michael confided that he was a suspect, although he prudently kept Rougham’s name out of the explanation.

Langelee was appalled. ‘But I was under the impression you had him locked away for his own sake, so he could enjoy a little peace, away from the strains of academic life.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Then I hope you are wrong,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘We all know he is insane, but it has always been a charming kind of madness, not the kind that makes him rip out men’s throats like a wild beast. But it makes sense, I suppose. He has always claimed an affinity with animals, and it is not such a great leap from that to imagining he is one – the kind that likes to savage its prey.’

Michael complained bitterly that there were no horses available for hire – they had all been put to pasture until after the Visitation, so they would not make a mess on the newly cleaned streets – and that he was obliged to waddle the mile or so to the ramshackle collection of huts that comprised the hospital at Stourbridge. His temper did not improve when they were obliged to battle with a powerful headwind that drove rain straight into their faces. It snatched the wide-brimmed hat from his head and deposited it in a boggy meadow that was difficult to traverse. Bartholomew’s boots were full of muddy water by the time they had retrieved it, and Michael’s normally pristine habit was streaked with filth.