Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘How do you know she has a sword?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have seen it. She thinks she can slip past my house unseen when she goes to her lover, but she cannot. I know the way she walks, even when she wears Langelee’s cloak.’

‘My cloak?’ came a familiar voice from the doorway. It was Michaelhouse’s Master, and Alyce Weasenham was behind him. ‘Why would Agatha wear my cloak?’

‘Where have you been?’ Weasenham demanded of Alyce. ‘You said you would only be gone an hour, and you have been away all night.’

Langelee had the grace to blush, but Alyce began a convoluted tale about being caught in a spring shower, taking shelter in a church, and then waking to find herself locked in.

‘I have only just been released,’ she concluded defiantly, while Tulyet raised laconic eyebrows and Michael sniggered.

‘It is true,’ said Langelee, gallantly stepping in to defend her virtue. ‘We did indeed pass the…’ He trailed off as Alyce shot him a withering glance.

‘ We? ’ asked Weasenham immediately. ‘You mean you were with her?’

‘Fortunately, yes,’ said Langelee, brazening it out. ‘I was able to reassure her that she would be reunited with you at first light, or she may have become hysterical.’

Alyce did not look like the kind of person who would lose her wits about being shut in a church, but no one said anything, and there was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then Langelee muttered something about being wanted at Michaelhouse, and escaped while he was still able.

‘I needed you last night, Alyce,’ said Weasenham reproachfully. ‘I have been held hostage for hours, and I kept expecting you to come and rescue me. In the end Michael, Bartholomew and Rougham obliged, although they made a dreadful mess as they did so.’

Alyce gazed around her. ‘This will not impress the Archbishop, and the word is that he is less than a mile outside the town. He will be here at any moment.’

‘That is true,’ said Tulyet, moving towards the door. ‘And we still have a great deal to do. The Visitation will have to take place with this killer on the loose, because I do not think Eudo and Boltone are our culprits. They are not clever enough.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘They were with Chesterfelde when he died, and tried to have the Oxford men blamed for it, but they did not kill Hamecotes, Gonerby or Okehamptone, and nor did they frighten Spryngheuse into taking his own life. Our list of suspects is growing shorter.’

‘Who is still on it?’ asked Tulyet.

‘Polmorva, Duraunt and the merchants,’ said Michael. ‘And some of the Fellows from King’s Hall – Norton, Wolf and Dodenho, whose silver astrolabe ended up in Eudo’s hoard.’

‘I have no idea what happened to that,’ mused Weasenham. ‘It was a pretty thing, so I put it in my chest upstairs, but…’ He realised what he had just admitted in front of the Sheriff and the Senior Proctor, and the colour drained from his face yet again. Bartholomew felt sorry for him: he was not having a good morning.

‘You swore you had handed all your findings to me,’ said Tulyet sternly. ‘Now you confess that you kept certain articles?’

‘Only the astrolabe,’ protested Weasenham, horrified at himself. ‘And only briefly – I do not have it now. Alyce thinks one of our customers must have made off with it.’

Tulyet grimaced in disgust, then turned to Michael. ‘Who else have you eliminated from your enquiries, other than Eudo and Boltone?’

‘Clippesby. He was with Matt when one attack took place, so he is in the clear.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Brother Paul sent me a message saying he escaped last night.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Michael.

‘Well, you should find him as soon as possible,’ advised Tulyet. ‘Personally, I believe we are not looking for a single killer, but a man who uses others to help him. It is the only way he could have perpetrated all these evil deeds, and you may find Clippesby is his accomplice.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew, although he was aware of an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. Surely, Clippesby could not be guilty after all they had been through?

‘You had better be sure,’ warned Tulyet. ‘This killer is ruthless and cold blooded, and he knows exactly what he wants. I suspect he manipulates people and, if you have hidden Clippesby somewhere, thinking to protect him, you may find yourselves in grave danger.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Michael, emerging from the stationer’s shop and looking to where folk lined the High Street, as if anticipating that the King himself might ride down it. He watched Tulyet’s men trying to move them back, but it was difficult when people were so determined to secure themselves a good view; they jostled and shoved, and in places they blocked the road completely. Tulyet’s expression was anxious, and Bartholomew sensed something in the air that had not been there earlier: an aura of menace. ‘I wish we had the wolf locked up in the Castle, not Eudo and Boltone. They are nothing.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Tulyet, scanning one of the proclamations. ‘If they had succeeded in distributing these, the Archbishop might have experienced at first hand how uneasy this town can be. They have accused the University of the most despicable of acts, and scholars would have fought to protect their honour. These would have caused a riot for certain.’

Michael disagreed. ‘No one would fight over this rubbish: it is too ridiculous. For example, it claims Chancellor Tynkell is a demon, because he has an aversion to water.’

‘I have always wondered why he never washes,’ said Tulyet dryly. ‘Now all is clear.’

‘And it says King’s Hall is full of men who cannot read,’ said Michael. ‘They would not fight over that, because it is true.’

‘It also says the Senior Proctor eats seven meals a day at six different Colleges,’ said Bartholomew, taking the parchment from Tulyet and reading it properly for the first time. He started to laugh.

‘Scurrilous lies,’ snapped Michael, trying to snatch it from him.

‘But here is something that is neither amusing nor untrue,’ said Bartholomew, pulling it back, so it tore. He glanced at Michael with a troubled expression, his jocundity evaporating. ‘It says that the University is harbouring a killer, and it is only a matter of time before more Cambridge men fall victim to his lust for blood.’

‘ More Cambridge men?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘I thought the only people to have died so far were from Oxford: Gonerby, Okehamptone, Chesterfelde and Spryngheuse.’

‘And Hamecotes,’ said Michael. ‘From King’s Hall.’

‘But no one should know about him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Certainly not Eudo and Boltone, who have been hiding in the Fens these last few days. So, either someone from King’s Hall told them about Hamecotes’s fate, or the murderer did.’

‘No scholar from King’s Hall would spread this tale,’ said Michael. ‘Which leaves the killer.’

‘Are you sure they are different?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

Tulyet was angry at the notion. ‘Damn these scholars! They had better not do anything untoward when Islip is here, not after all the trouble the town has taken to impress the man.’

‘No one will produce a set of teeth and attack an Archbishop in broad daylight,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘So far, the killer has only claimed his victims during the hours of darkness. We will need to be on our guard tonight, but not now.’

‘Not true,’ argued Tulyet, unappeased. ‘Gonerby was murdered in the day, when the streets were awash with rioting people, and there was a witness who saw everything.’

‘Possibly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the witness is Polmorva, who may have lied about the timing of the murder – and who may even be the wolf himself.’