Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Michael winced at what he considered unnecessary detail. ‘I believe Hamecotes, Okehamptone and Rougham – and probably Gonerby too – were victims of the same person, because it is impossible that we should have two lunatic biters on the loose simultaneously. But this leads us to more questions: first, how is Rougham connected to the Merton Hall deaths, and second, who is this maniac?’

‘It cannot be Clippesby,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘If it were, then we would have to assume that he also took Hamecotes from the cistern and brought him here. He has been at Stourbridge, and has had no opportunity to tote corpses around the town.’

‘We have been through this before, Matt,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Clippesby has had the opportunity to retrieve and hide bodies. He regularly escapes from his cell, and he does not even bother to deny the fact. I know you are reluctant to believe he could do such a thing, but I think it is time we faced up to the truth, and took a long hard look at him.’

Bartholomew shook his head stubbornly. ‘You can look all you like, but Clippesby is not our man. He has no reason to select these particular victims. I think you were right with your original theory: that there is something odd going on that involves Oxford – and Merton in particular – because all these deaths have some link to those places.’

‘With the exception of Rougham.’

‘He is in his fifties, and claims to have travelled. He may well have studied at Oxford in the past.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle, breaking into their discussion. ‘Those Oxford men have no right to bring dangerous creatures to our city. It is only a matter of time before the thing attacks someone else, and I do not want it said that scholars harbour savage beasts for the express purpose of slaughter.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Dodenho. ‘Eudo whipped the townsfolk into a frenzy this morning with his tales of scholars blaming him for crimes he did not commit. If word leaks out that we have killer ferrets in our halls, they will rise up against us for certain.’

‘Then we must make sure they do not,’ said Michael decisively. ‘Keep this affair with Hamecotes quiet until I tell you otherwise. Bury him as soon as you can, but do not tell the students what really happened. We have a great deal to lose, and we must be discreet.’

‘You can trust us,’ said Paxtone. ‘We do not want our College attacked or the town in flames. Hamecotes will be buried tomorrow, but no one will know how he died.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. He glanced out of the window, gauging the hour by the angle of the sun. ‘It is almost time for this requiem. Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse should go in the ground as soon as possible: I do not want dead scholars used as a rallying point as halls and Colleges rise up against the town.’

Bartholomew followed Michael to St Michael’s Church, where the monk performed a moving and solemn mass. Bartholomew had expected Duraunt and Polmorva to attend, but he was surprised to see the three merchants, too. Eu and Abergavenny stood together near the front of the small gathering of mourners, but the tanner remained apart from them. Judging by the number of black looks he threw in their direction, they had had a serious falling-out over something.

Towards the end of the service, at its sacred climax, the largest of the altar candles began to gutter, and Bartholomew realised he had not changed it since Michael had complained about its defective wick. Before he could fetch a replacement, the flame had flickered and gone out.

‘That is an omen,’ he heard Eu whisper, while Wormynghalle began to cross himself. ‘There is something amiss with this whole business, and God has sent us a sign.’

‘Nonsense,’ replied Polmorva. ‘It tells us only that Michaelhouse did not have the decency to provide new candles for our dead.’

‘It does not mean that either,’ said Duraunt, sounding tired. ‘It simply means one candle is finished and a new one is needed.’

‘It means there are restless spirits here,’ said Wormynghalle, looking around fearfully, as if he expected one to come and accost him. ‘And they do not like what we are doing.’

‘We are watching a holy rite,’ said Polmorva archly. ‘Why should spirits object to that?’

‘It depends on the spirit,’ said Eu in his laconic manner. ‘Demonic ones will not appreciate a sacred office, I am sure. But perhaps the candle expired because God knows what really happened to Spryngheuse, and He does not want his sinful body in consecrated ground.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Wormynghalle. His face was white and his eyes dilated with fear. ‘I am not staying here to be blasted by divinely inspired lightning.’

He clattered out of the building as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving Bartholomew staring after him in astonishment, amazed that a rough, insensitive man like the tanner should be so seriously agitated by the end of a candle. Eu laughed, hard and derisively, distracting Michael from his duties.

‘Stop that!’ said the monk sharply. ‘Snigger outside if you must, but do not befoul my church with undignified behaviour. If there are bolts of lightning on their way, it will be because you have cackled and chattered during the Transubstantiation.’

‘The candle going out is significant,’ insisted Eu, chagrined and sulky at the rebuke. ‘A flame extinguishing itself during the mass means something terrible will happen. You mark my words.’

The following day was a Saturday, so teaching finished early, and Bartholomew and Michael went to visit Rougham. They found him out of bed and sitting at the lower-ground window. His face was pale and he was thinner than he had been, but he had washed and shaved, and had lost the hollow-eyed stare that had made Bartholomew fear for his life. He was laughing when Bartholomew tapped on the door and entered. The physician had never seen Rougham laugh, except on occasions when a student or a colleague had done something stupid, when he made a braying sound full of derision. But this was an open guffaw, full of genuine mirth.

‘Matilde has been entertaining me,’ he explained when he saw his colleague’s bemusement. ‘She has tales about life at Court you would not believe. She is wasted here. She should be with Queen Philippa, employing her many accomplishments and securing herself a decent husband.’

Matilde gave a wistful smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she might concur, and it crossed his mind to ask her to marry him then and there. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rougham chattered on, and Bartholomew did not want to propose in front of an audience anyway. He decided to ask later, when Rougham was back at Gonville and they could be alone.

‘She plays the lute with a skill I have seldom seen.’ Rougham continued with his eulogy when Matilde went to fetch cushions for her guests. ‘And she sings with the voice of an angel. She reads better than any Bible Scholar I have heard, and she sees through the political manoeuvrings of the King’s Court with a skill any clerk would envy. I repeat: she should not be squandering her talents here.’

‘You have enjoyed her company, then?’ asked Michael wryly.

‘I most certainly have!’ declared Rougham with great conviction. ‘I was horrified when Yolande and her husband brought me here: to the home of the woman who organises the town’s whores into an efficient and well-run guild. But Matilde is not like them and, since I have regained my wits, she has impressed me with her modesty and gentleness. It is not every lady who would take an ailing man into her home and risk so much for him. But Matilde did so without complaint, and my reputation remains intact.’