Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Always,’ said Bartholomew. They were silent for a moment, as each considered the enormity of what Bartholomew was about to do. He would have to start hunting for patients who could pay him, and would have no time for his treatise on fevers. Meanwhile, Michael thought about how different life would be for him, too, and realised how much he had come to rely on the physician’s insights and help in all manner of ways.

‘Did Matilde see who broke into her house?’ asked Bartholomew, pulling his mind away from the future. ‘And what about Rougham? Did the killer come to complete what he started two weeks ago?’

‘I think that is exactly what he was doing,’ said Michael soberly. ‘It happened at midnight precisely, because Matilde heard handbells jangling inside All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. Rougham escaped unharmed, too, although the shock has not been good for him.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘The wolf was busy last night. He must have gone directly from Matilde’s house to Stourbridge.’

‘The wolf?’ echoed Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head, impatient with himself. ‘That is what Clippesby calls him. I am sorry, Brother. He used it so often last night that it rubbed off on me.’

‘You went to see Clippesby?’ asked Michael warily. ‘In the middle of the night? With a killer on the loose, who may decide you are to be next?’

Bartholomew described what had happened, leaving out only the fact that he had hidden Clippesby in a place only he and Agatha knew. Michael immediately jumped to the conclusion that Clippesby had been afraid the Oxford merchants would hang him, and had fled the area completely. Bartholomew said nothing to disabuse him of the notion.

‘Damn! The Archbishop is due this afternoon, and we shall have to welcome him knowing there is a killer stalking our streets with a metal dentition. I hope to God this wolf does not have designs on Islip, because, if he strikes, our University will be suppressed for certain. I know Canterbury became famous after the murder of Thomas à Becket, but I do not want Cambridge to be known for killing archbishops, too. We do not have a cathedral.’

‘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.