Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘Or who?’ asked Matilde. ‘Duraunt? Your kindly old teacher, who drinks heavily in taverns and who lies about his love affair with soporifics? The man who seems rather too friendly with that nasty Polmorva, and who has a will of iron under that oh-so-gentle exterior?’

‘Poppy juice and wine is a powerful combination,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘They could change him from a kindly ancient into something savage.’

Bartholomew recalled the demonic strength of the hands around his throat, and the grim determination of the wolf to rip his skin with the filth-smeared teeth. ‘He is not strong enough.’

‘Not even when intoxicated?’ pressed Rougham. ‘Your experience as a physician will have taught you that even the meekest of men can turn into raging lions when they swallow dangerous remedies.’

‘I know, but…’ said Bartholomew, feeling exhaustion wash over him as his conviction in Duraunt’s innocence began to waver, ‘…but I do not believe it of him.’

Rougham laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in the first gesture of friendship he had ever offered, while Matilde took his hand and raised it to her lips. He looked into her eyes and was suddenly overwhelmed with the utter conviction that it was the right time to ask her to marry him, whether Rougham was present or no.

‘Matilde,’ he began. ‘Will you …?’

‘Lord!’ puffed Michael, gasping for breath in the doorway. ‘I am exhausted after that run!’

Michael waddled across the room and flopped on to a bench, where he sat fanning himself with his loose sleeve. Matilde released Bartholomew’s hand and went to fetch ale to help him recover, while Rougham lowered himself on a bench, wincing at the pain in his injured shoulder.

‘Well?’ Michael rasped. ‘What have you deduced? Have you solved the case? Who is the wolf? You had better hurry with your analysis, because Islip will arrive in a matter of hours and we do not have time to waste. Who might have a reason to kill you, Rougham? We know it was not Clippesby, so who else could it be?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Rougham. ‘And believe me, I have thought about little else these last few days. I have not lost any patients recently, so it cannot be a grieving relative. I am on reasonable terms with my colleagues at Gonville – we have our disagreements, but none are serious. I confine my amorous adventures to Yolande de Blaston, and I always pay handsomely for the privilege. And I owe no one any money. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm me.’

‘What about your student, William of Lee?’ wheezed Michael. ‘He thinks you are a hard taskmaster, and says you are never satisfied with him, no matter how hard he tries.’

Rougham sighed. ‘Some students respond to encouragement, and others need criticism to produce their best work. Lee is one of the latter. If I do not monitor him constantly, he grows lax. But I do not ride him hard enough to make him want to kill me.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, aware that students were sometimes delicate creatures, whose feelings were easily hurt. Insults were often felt more deeply in the young than in older, wiser people, who had learned that they could not please everyone all of the time. But did Lee have the intelligence to kill and hide his tracks? And why would he have been in Oxford on St Scholastica’s Day, when the whole business seemed to have started, not to mention managing to lay his hands on the metal teeth? Lee as the wolf did not make sense, so Bartholomew eliminated him from his list of suspects, resigned to the fact that, once again, it comprised Polmorva, Dodenho and some of his colleagues from King’s Hall. And Duraunt.

‘What about Boltone?’ suggested Rougham, racking his brains. ‘He knows Oxford, since he is employed by Merton College, and he makes journeys there to present his accounts. I know, because he is my patient, and he has told me. He may have found these teeth and killed Gonerby.’

‘We asked if he had been there recently, and he said he had not,’ said Michael.

Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Well, he is hardly likely to admit to a February visit, if he had murdered someone. And besides, he is not an honest man. You know that for yourselves, because Duraunt is here to inspect his dubious accounting – and do not forget that he was caught virtually red-handed with that treasure hoard in the cistern.’

‘But if Boltone is the wolf, why has he started his murderous spree now?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why not years ago? And what is his motive?’

‘You can ask him that when he is caught,’ said Rougham. ‘And he will be caught, because he will not go far. Cambridge is his home and I do not see him leaving to start a new life elsewhere. He and Eudo will be in the Fens together, waiting until the hue and cry has died down. Then they will return, and set about proving their “innocence”.’

‘But why would they harm you ?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Are you saying Boltone hates his physician enough to make two attempts on his life?’

‘I do not know,’ said Rougham wearily. ‘Perhaps it was because I once wrote, in a letter to my friend Henry Okehamptone, that Boltone was a dishonest sort of fellow and that Merton College would be wise to examine his accounting.’

Michael stared at him. ‘You did that? Then he does have a motive to kill you: revenge.’

‘It was more than a year ago,’ objected Rougham, ‘and I thought no more about it until today.’

‘We must move you as soon as we can,’ said Bartholomew, aware that time was passing. ‘You are not safe here. We can discuss Boltone later, when you are home.’

Rougham nodded weakly. ‘I have imposed myself on Matilde long enough. I cannot walk far, but I think I can reach Weasenham’s shop.’

‘Why there?’ asked Michael, startled.

‘I have a plan,’ said Rougham.

‘Will you tell us what it is?’ asked Michael, when the Gonville man said no more. ‘I would sooner know what you have in mind before we help.’

‘I shall decline your assistance,’ said Rougham softly. ‘You have done more than enough for me already, and I refuse to have this wolf stalking you, when it is me he is after.’

‘It is too late for that,’ said Michael. ‘He almost had Matt last night.’

Rougham sighed with genuine regret. ‘Quite. And I do not want you taking more risks on my behalf. So, I will walk – alone – to Weasenham’s shop, where I will ask him to send one of his lads for my College’s cart. I will ensure he knows I am going to Gonville, because then he will tell everyone I am home, and the wolf will not bother Matilde again.’

Bartholomew shot her an agonised look, afraid that Rougham moving out of her house might not render her that much safer.

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘The wolf is selective. From what Matilde told me last night, he could easily have hurt her before going after Rougham. Mercy was a mistake on his part, because it allowed her to dart up the stairs and warn him. Think about Clippesby, too. The killer could have had him with ease – he was a tethered goat at Stourbridge – but he was only interested in you.’

‘You cannot walk alone,’ said Bartholomew to Rougham. ‘You are too weak – and just imagine how it will look if you are found lying in the gutter outside Matilde’s house.’

‘Not as bad as it would have done last week,’ said Rougham. He smiled, in a rare display of humour. ‘They have been cleaned since then.’

‘We will escort you to Weasenham’s premises,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Now, before there are too many people around. But we should hurry – folk are already beginning to gather in the Market Square, hoping Islip and his entourage will arrive early.’