‘Rougham is often nasty to him, and Clippesby is not so witless that he cannot see when he is being derided. I decided to err on the side of caution. Rougham agreed to say nothing about Clippesby, as long as Matilde and I keep quiet about Yolande.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘We even have a written contract to that effect, would you believe? The man was lying in bed with a wound that looked set to prove fatal, and he dictated a legal document! He is incorrigible!’
‘And you did all this to protect Clippesby? You know that if Rougham told anyone else what had happened, Clippesby would hang?’
‘And to help Matilde. She was kind to Clippesby, and he repaid her by commissioning a silversmith to make her a tiny carving of a dog. Weasenham saw it being crafted, and drew some spiteful conclusions about who would receive it. Rougham had heard these speculations, and spotted the ornament on Matilde’s shelf. He said he would not tell Weasenham she was the recipient of Clippesby’s gift, if we returned the favour by keeping his secret. It was all rather sordid, actually. I would have kept his confidences anyway, and there was no need for him to resort to blackmail.’
Michael sighed. ‘What a mess! It is hard to know where the work of evil men ends, and where the work of good men and fools begins.’
‘And which am I?’
‘A bit of each. That is why Matilde thinks so highly of you.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘Do you think I should marry her?’ The question surprised him as much as it did Michael, and he realised exhaustion was making him voluble.
Michael was silent for a long time. ‘If you do, you will have to resign your Fellowship and give up your teaching. The University will no longer be open to you, and I will probably not be permitted to keep you as my Corpse Examiner – although I will apply for special dispensation.’ He nodded towards the sleeping Rougham. ‘He has always envied you that post, and will doubtless try to secure it for himself once he hears you are wed.’
‘I will not miss inspecting bodies, but I cannot imagine life with no teaching. However, Matilde is worth the sacrifice.’
‘Do not ask her yet,’ advised Michael practically. ‘Wait until you have both rested, and then neither of you will make a decision that is influenced by weariness. Marriage is a big step, and should not be taken lightly. But we should not be discussing this with Matilde downstairs; she may wake up and hear us. Tell me about Clippesby, instead. Do you really believe he is innocent?’
Bartholomew stared at the floor. ‘You know what he is like about animals. It is not such a huge step from imagining they talk to you, to thinking you are one – and it is not wholly beyond the realm of possibility that, in a moment of madness, he saw himself as a wolf. I have read about such cases, and once met a man who thought he was a squirrel. He kept his cheeks stuffed with nuts.’
‘But this is different,’ said Michael. ‘And there is more, too. I can see it in your eyes.’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, relieved to share his worries at last. ‘Clippesby has not remained at Stourbridge since I put him there. He has escaped to wander at least three times – more, if we count that time last February, when he said he had been to visit his father.’
‘We did not believe him at the time,’ mused Michael, remembering. ‘But he returned safe and sound, and we forgot about it. But what is so odd about that? Scholars often disappear without proper permission – look at Hamecotes and Wolf. And Clippesby was not locked away in Stourbridge then, anyway.’
‘February,’ said Bartholomew significantly. ‘You know what happened in February.’
‘The St Scholastica’s Day riots,’ breathed Michael in understanding. ‘When Gonerby was bitten to death by a man about to travel to Cambridge. Clippesby was gone for about ten days. Is that enough time to travel to Oxford and back?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘And, since arriving at Stourbridge, Brother Paul tells me he left the precinct once about a week ago and again on Saturday night.’
‘Saturday night was when Chesterfelde died,’ said Michael, alarmed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘And the body in the cistern looked to have been dead for several days – perhaps a week. I may be able to be more accurate when I examine it properly.’
It occurred to him that there was something horribly untimely about the demise of Okehamptone – the Oxford man who had died from the fever – too. He had perished the night Rougham was attacked, when Clippesby had been out without a credible alibi. Clippesby had even recommended that Michael should review Okehamptone’s death, claiming that the Merton Hall geese had been suspicious about it. Bartholomew’s nagging unease about the scribe’s end was compounded by the fact that Paxtone was supposed to have examined the body, but had actually done no more than pray. He was torn between a desire to know for certain that Okehamptone had died of natural causes, and the fear of discovering teeth marks that would implicate Clippesby in yet another assault.
‘But why, Brother?’ he asked, declining to load all his concerns on to the monk. ‘Why would Clippesby go all the way to Oxford, bite a man and then come home? It makes no sense.’
‘The insane are not bound by the same rules as you and me,’ preached Michael. ‘You will not understand Clippesby’s motives if you think about them until Judgement Day.’
Bartholomew closed his eyes, then opened them again when he felt sleep begin to creep up on him. ‘He has never been violent before.’
‘That does not mean he will never start. You have often said you know little about ailments that afflict the mind. Who knows what Clippesby might be capable of? And you are clearly worried, or you would not have taken the dramatic precaution of locking him away.’
‘I do not know what to think. The fact that I may have incarcerated an innocent man is not a pleasant thought, but neither is the notion of a maniac on the loose. Human bites are dangerous, even when they do not rip vital blood vessels.’
‘You did the right thing, Matt. It would be terrible for Michaelhouse – and the University – if the news were to spread that one of our scholars likes to eat other men’s throats. The town would rise against us for certain, and it could be the end of us all.’
‘And definitely the end of Clippesby. I like him, Brother; I cannot believe he is a killer.’
‘I shall reserve judgement. But proving him innocent will not solve our problems. If we learn he is not the man who attacked Rougham, Gonerby and the fellow in the cistern, then we shall be obliged to hunt another lunatic with roving teeth – one who has a far more deadly purpose than gnawing on a man who was unkind to him.’
‘Perhaps these deaths are unrelated,’ suggested Bartholomew hopefully. ‘It is a pity Chesterfelde is buried. I feel I should assess him again, to see whether I missed tooth marks on his body.’
‘He is not buried,’ said Michael. ‘The Franciscans initiated some tiresome theological wrangle over whether a man from a city under interdict can be placed in holy ground elsewhere, and the visitors from Merton are still awaiting the outcome. You can examine him, if you think you should.’
‘The wound was messy, and I was not looking for teeth marks at the time. It would be useful to know for certain whether they played a role in his demise.’
‘We will find out tomorrow. Then we will visit Stourbridge and make sure Clippesby is well secured. If he is guilty, then it can do no harm. If he is innocent, then it will protect him, should this story seep out. How much longer can you keep Rougham here?’
‘He is on the mend, thank God, and will be able to return to Gonville in a day or two. He signed that contract, so he will not say anything to damage Clippesby.’
Michael was not so sure. ‘As long as he thinks he is the only one Clippesby attacked, he will abide by what he agreed. But what happens when he learns about Gonerby and the man in the cistern? He will be afraid the killer might try to harm him again – to finish what he started – and will speak out, just to make sure his colleagues afford him an appropriate level of protection. It will not be many days before Clippesby is exposed. You must keep Rougham here for as long as possible, so he cannot hear town gossip.’