Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Well?’ asked Michael. ‘What did St Benedict and his sister talk about that stormy night? What they were going to have for breakfast?’

‘That would no doubt be your choice of subject,’ replied Clippesby crisply. ‘But pious folk are not obsessed with such earthly matters. Benedict and Scholastica talked about the power of creation, and how one life is so small and insignificant compared to the living universe.’

‘Well, that very much depends on whose life we are talking about,’ said Michael, smarting over the accusation that he was venally minded. ‘For example, I would not consider Matt’s unimportant, and someone tried to take it before dawn on Wednesday morning.’

‘Really?’ asked Clippesby, his eyes wide. ‘How terrible! But you are unharmed, so whoever tried to rob you was unsuccessful.’

‘How do you know it was a robber?’

‘Why else would anyone attack him?’

‘Have you encountered two men called Boltone and Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby was not going to admit to being in St Michael’s at the time of the attack – if he even knew. But the mention of robbers had brought to mind the dishonest residents of Merton Hall.

‘The Merton Hall chickens detest Boltone,’ replied Clippesby. ‘They say he has been cheating his masters for years. Meanwhile, Edwardus Rex, the dog with whom Yolande de Blaston lives, tells me that Eudo may have stolen the silver statue I gave to Matilde.’

Michael nodded. ‘It seems he took it when he visited her to get a remedy for women’s pains – for the wife he does not have.’

‘Many men do that,’ said Clippesby. ‘Matilde is good and generous, and people trust her. You should marry her, Matt, before someone else steals her heart.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, aware that Clippesby was regarding him expectantly. He hesitated, on the verge of confiding his decision to make her his wife, but then Clippesby’s attention was snatched by a flock of pigeons landing in the yard, and the moment was lost.

‘Do your chickens know anything about an astrolabe owned by Geoffrey Dodenho?’ asked Michael hopefully. ‘It was sold to someone at Merton Hall.’

Clippesby shook his head. ‘No, but the King’s Hall rats told me that Dodenho claimed it had been stolen by another Fellow – probably by his room-mate, who is called Wolf – but that he suddenly went quiet about it. They think he later found it again, but because he had made such a fuss about its “theft”, he was obliged to sell it – so he would not have to apologise for making unfounded accusations. The rats say that is why Wolf ran away: he did not like being considered a felon.’

‘When you say “King’s Hall rats” are you referring to small furry rodents or to men in tabards?’ asked Michael cautiously.

‘Rodents, of course,’ said Clippesby, annoyed. ‘I do not insult rats by likening them to people.’

‘Do they or the chickens know anything about Eudo or Boltone?’ asked Michael. He sounded uncomfortable, unsure of how to deal with the strange realities of Clippesby’s world.

Clippesby scratched his head. ‘I do not think so, but I can ask. The problem with hens is that they are not always interested in the same things as us, and one needs to question them very carefully to determine whether or not they know anything of relevance. It is quite an art.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I have encountered similar problems myself. But I need to ask you more questions, if you have no objection. Matt and I have been investigating a very complex case, and you may be able to help us.’

Clippesby nodded sombrely. ‘Of course. I am always willing to be of service to you, although you should be aware that a desire to help is not the same as being able to help. But ask your questions, and we shall see. As the hedgehogs of Peterhouse always say, if you do not ask, you will not receive.’

‘Right.’ Michael cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Where did you go in February, when you abandoned your teaching for ten days without permission?’

‘You have already fined me for that,’ said Clippesby, immediately defensive. ‘You cannot punish me twice for the same offence. Besides, I told you what happened: an owl came and told me my father was ill, so I went without delay to visit him in Norfolk.’

‘Norfolk?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Oxford?’

Clippesby grimaced. ‘Certainly not. I dislike Oxford, and would never go there willingly.’

‘Was your father unwell?’

‘No,’ admitted Clippesby. ‘The owl must have confused him with someone else.’

‘Then what about your more recent absences? Where were you on the eve of Ascension Day?’

‘That was the night Rougham was attacked and I saved his life,’ replied Clippesby resentfully. ‘I wish I had not bothered, because then I would not be incarcerated here. However, I do not recall exactly where else I was that evening. You had plied me with too much wine earlier, Brother, and my wits were addled.’

‘That had nothing to do with the wine,’ muttered Michael. ‘Then what about last Saturday?’

‘You think I had something to do with the murder at Merton Hall – the man with the cut wrist?’ asked Clippesby. He saw Michael’s surprise that he should know about Chesterfelde, and smiled enigmatically. ‘The chickens mentioned what had happened – I told you I am friendly with them. But I did not kill anyone, Brother. I do not waste time with people when there are animals to talk to. What they say is worth hearing, unlike the vicious ramblings of men.’ Abruptly he turned his attention to Bartholomew, who was simultaneously disconcerted and startled by the penetrating stare. ‘I know what you are thinking.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping he did not. He had lost interest in the discussion, and his thoughts had turned to Matilde. In the dusty gloom of Clippesby’s chamber he had reached a decision, and he knew with absolute certainty that it was the right one. He would marry Matilde. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, and his Fellowship was a small price to pay for the honour of spending the rest of his life with such a woman. His mind now irrevocably made up, he felt strangely sanguine about the University and its various mysteries. It occurred to him that he should probably confide his plans to Matilde before resigning and making arrangements to secure them a house, and determined to do so at the first opportunity. He did not countenance the appalling possibility that she might decline his offer.

Clippesby frowned slightly, noting the distant look in his colleague’s eyes. ‘I know what you think about me,’ he said, correcting himself.

‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew pleasantly, ready to embrace the whole world in his new-found happiness and serenity.

‘You order me to stay here, because you say folk do not understand my kinship with animals and you are afraid someone may hurt me. But the reality is that you are one of those people. You may not wish me harm, but you no more understand my relationship with the natural world than they do. You are just like them, only you hide your opinions behind a veil of concern.’

‘He is worried about you,’ said Michael gently, while Bartholomew gazed at him in dismay, uncomfortably aware that he was right. His brief surge of bliss vanished, leaving him with the sense that he had let Clippesby down. He did not understand him, and was probably no better than others in that respect – worse, even, because his inability to physic him had led to his incarceration.

‘And you want me here because you are afraid my idiosyncrasies might reflect badly on Michaelhouse when the Archbishop comes,’ said Clippesby, rounding on the monk. ‘You are afraid I will say or do something that will make us a laughing stock. After all, what College wants a Fellow whose behaviour is so unlike anyone else’s?’