Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

‘He is here,’ said Langelee grimly, as more trumpets blasted. ‘A grand gate-opening ceremony has been arranged before Islip enters the town officially, which means we have about an hour before he reaches St Mary the Great.’

‘We must have Clippesby under lock and key before then,’ said Michael. ‘All of us – Masters, Fellows and certainly the Senior Proctor – are supposed to attend a service of thanksgiving before Islip processes to the Hall of Valence Marie for a feast. I do not want Clippesby seeing him as his own personal meal, and using his teeth on the man.’

‘We have the teeth,’ Bartholomew pointed out, feeling them bang up and down in his medical bag as he moved. ‘The killer cannot bite anyone without them.’

‘He may apply his own,’ said Michael, struggling to keep up with his more agile colleagues.

Bartholomew saw the monk’s flushed face and heaving chest, and slowed further still, not wanting him to have a seizure. He pulled the steel fangs from his bag as he walked, and inspected them properly for the first time. They were more or less how he remembered them, although they were tarnished with age. The only difference was that the incisors had been honed to a vicious sharpness – keen enough to draw blood even from the lightest touch. They were expertly made, and the hinges on either side were well oiled and in good working order. Uncomfortably, he wondered how they had come to be in Cambridge, and kept returning to the same conclusion: Duraunt had brought them. He had not destroyed them, as he had claimed, but had kept them for some reason he had declined to share.

They arrived at Merton Hall to find it strangely deserted. No servants were in the grounds; Bartholomew supposed they had all gone to watch the Archbishop. The silence was unsettling, and he thought Michael was right to be worried about a trap. The monk hammered on the door, then opened it when there was no answer. He leaned against a wall to catch his breath, and indicated with a wave of his hand that Bartholomew and Langelee should look upstairs. While they obliged, he used the time to inspect a pile of saddlebags that were packed and waiting by the door.

Bartholomew and Langelee crept up the stairs and entered the hall. Bartholomew held one of his surgical knives, while the Master produced a massive ornamental dagger with a jewel-studded hilt. The hall was empty, so they aimed for the solar. When Bartholomew hauled open the door, Langelee shot inside with his weapon raised, but no one was there. The grubby possessions of Eudo and Boltone were still scattered around, but there was no sign of the three merchants or the two surviving scholars. By the time they had finished searching the house, Michael had been through the saddlebags.

‘These belong to Duraunt and Polmorva,’ he said, pointing at the smallest two. ‘There is poppy juice in one and an academic tabard in the other. I think they intend to slip away during the Visitation.’

‘What about the others?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping the monk was wrong, although flight at such a time looked suspicious, to say the least.

‘They belong to the merchants, judging by their contents,’ replied Michael. ‘Do you think this means they have a culprit to take back to Gonerby’s vengeful widow?’

‘You mean Clippesby?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm. ‘I hope they have not harmed him, on the grounds that it will be safer to take a corpse than a live victim.’

‘He told us to come here,’ said Langelee, annoyed. ‘But the place is empty. Was he trying to draw us away, do you think, sending us chasing shadows so he can kill the Archbishop more easily?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He does not want to kill Islip. Why would he do such a thing in sight of the entire town? It would ensure he is incarcerated permanently – assuming, of course, that he is captured alive and Tulyet’s men do not shoot him.’

‘He is mad,’ explained Langelee. ‘He does not see things in the same light as you and I.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘He wanted us here for a reason, and I will not leave until I know what it is. I am going to search the grounds. Will you come with me?’

‘No, I will go to tell Tulyet what has happened,’ said Langelee, beginning to move away. He called back over his shoulder. ‘If you do find Clippesby, do not let him escape again. We will send him to this hospital in Norfolk first thing tomorrow.’

When he had gone, Bartholomew led Michael through Merton Hall’s vegetable plots. They were still and silent, contrasting starkly with the colour and movement along the High Street. A blackbird suddenly flapped away from a patch of peas, squawking its agitation and making them jump in alarm. And then it was gone, leaving them grinning in rueful amusement at the way it had startled them so badly.

They were almost at the end of the garden, near the Bin Brook and the cistern, when they heard the first sound. It was a voice and a splash. Raising his hand to warn Michael to take care, Bartholomew inched forward, watching where he put his feet, so he did not step on a dead twig and warn Clippesby – or whoever was there – that he was coming. Michael was less cautious, and there was a loud crunch as he trod on a snail. It sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent garden, and Bartholomew turned to give the monk an agonised scowl.

‘That is far enough,’ said a soft voice. ‘Do not move, or it will be the last thing you do.’

Bartholomew looked around slowly, and was startled to see a woman standing there. She wore a white wimple, while a light veil covered her nose and mouth in a fashion that had been popular among ladies some ten years before. Bartholomew looked hard at her, and saw a fair curl that was redolent of Alyce Weasenham. Her long blue kirtle accentuated the attractive curves of her sensual figure, and he was not surprised Langelee had been lured by her charms. But, at that moment, he was more concerned by the fact that she held a bow, and that she handled it in a way that suggested she knew how to use it. Around her shoulders was a quiver containing more arrows, and from its position Bartholomew sensed she could whip out a second one even as the first sped towards its target.

‘Where is Clippesby?’ demanded Michael. He took a step forward, then stopped when a quarrel thudded into the ground at his feet. As Bartholomew had anticipated, she had nocked another missile into her bow before the astonished monk had looked up from the spent one. ‘There is no need for that,’ he objected.

‘Do as you are told,’ she snapped. ‘Or the next one will be through your heart.’

Her determined eyes, and the way her hands were absolutely steady on her weapon, convinced both scholars that she was in earnest.

‘Help!’ came a weak voice from the cistern. Bartholomew saw that the heavy lid preventing leaves and other debris from falling inside the well had been replaced since Tulyet’s dredging. All that was open was the square hatch, which allowed a bucket to be raised and lowered. And someone had evidently gone through it.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, taking a tentative step forward. The woman did not object, so he took another, and another, until he was able to see. What he saw shocked him.

Four white faces gazed at him. They belonged to Polmorva, Duraunt, Eu and Abergavenny. The water was not far from the top of the well, but the walls were still slick, preventing anyone from climbing out. The lid made matters worse: it was so heavy that no one would be able to raise it from within. He heard Michael’s horrified gasp as he recalled his own recent experiences.

‘That witch has blocked the outflow,’ called Polmorva desperately. ‘It is only a matter of time before enough water floods in to drown us. There is no escape and we are too far away for our cries to be heard.’