‘They will be heard in Ely,’ said Michael in alarm, as the friar left with his reluctant students in tow. ‘And worse, at the Dominican convent! We will have enraged Black Friars at our gates within an hour, and you know how keen I am to keep the peace until the Visitation is over.’
‘The Dominicans are perfectly aware that William’s opinions do not represent our own,’ said Langelee, relieved to have the Franciscan gone. ‘Besides, would you really object if they silenced him by force? I would not. He is becoming a liability with his stupid ideas and braying voice. Perhaps we should summon a few Dominicans to shut him up – preferably before he has an opportunity to regale the Archbishop with his nasty theories.’
Michael sighed, unable to answer. It was a good deal quieter in the hall without William, and Bartholomew made rapid progress on Galen and black bile. Even Deynman seemed to have improved by the end of the lesson, and the physician was encouraged. He spent the second half of the afternoon teaching a combined class of his own students and Clippesby’s how to calculate the speed of the planets through the sky using different geometrical techniques. Afterwards, leaving the students reeling from their mental exertions, he visited Rougham, and was pleased to find him sleeping peacefully.
Matilde was sleeping peacefully, too, so he crept out of the house so as not to disturb her, knowing that neither patient nor nurse would require his services that night. Rougham would soon be gone from her life and at that point, Bartholomew decided, they would discuss the future, and whether it would be one they might share. He returned to Michaelhouse, read until he started to feel drowsy, then went to bed, where he slept deeply and well.
Michael cornered Langelee the following morning, and confided that he was now seriously worried about the Oxford murders and the damaging effect they might have when the Archbishop arrived in three days’ time. Unlike Bartholomew, he had slept fitfully, and Gonerby, Okehamptone and Chesterfelde had paraded through his mind like lost souls. His beadles informed him that the merchants had been at the Cardinal’s Cap the previous evening, and had befriended a number of locals with their deep purses: the resulting discussion had included the notion that the University might be harbouring a killer. Rougham’s medical students had overheard, and there had been an unpleasant exchange of words before the beadles were able to remove the scholars and fine them for drinking in a tavern.
Langelee was a practical man, ambitious for his University, and he desperately wanted Islip to found his new College in Cambridge. He understood perfectly that three tradesmen hunting a scholar for murder would not make for peaceful relations, and was willing to do whatever was necessary to help. He immediately agreed to release Michael and Bartholomew from their teaching until the Visitation was over. Bartholomew was not pleased to be informed that his classes were to be suspended while he chased killers, but appreciated the now urgent need to solve the case before the Visitation. Langelee ordered the fiscally talented Wynewyk to manipulate the College finances so that two postgraduates could be paid to stand in for the absent masters, and Bartholomew set his students an unreasonable amount of work, hoping they would become alarmed by the number of texts they would eventually need to master and would settle down to some serious study.
First, Bartholomew and Michael decided to see Clippesby at Stourbridge. The physician wanted to assess whether it was he who had attacked him in St Michael’s Church, while Michael was keen to question him about the deaths of Okehamptone and Gonerby. When Langelee urged Bartholomew to bring Clippesby back, sane or otherwise, Michael confided that he was a suspect, although he prudently kept Rougham’s name out of the explanation.
Langelee was appalled. ‘But I was under the impression you had him locked away for his own sake, so he could enjoy a little peace, away from the strains of academic life.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.
‘Then I hope you are wrong,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘We all know he is insane, but it has always been a charming kind of madness, not the kind that makes him rip out men’s throats like a wild beast. But it makes sense, I suppose. He has always claimed an affinity with animals, and it is not such a great leap from that to imagining he is one – the kind that likes to savage its prey.’
Michael complained bitterly that there were no horses available for hire – they had all been put to pasture until after the Visitation, so they would not make a mess on the newly cleaned streets – and that he was obliged to waddle the mile or so to the ramshackle collection of huts that comprised the hospital at Stourbridge. His temper did not improve when they were obliged to battle with a powerful headwind that drove rain straight into their faces. It snatched the wide-brimmed hat from his head and deposited it in a boggy meadow that was difficult to traverse. Bartholomew’s boots were full of muddy water by the time they had retrieved it, and Michael’s normally pristine habit was streaked with filth.
‘Damn Clippesby,’ the monk muttered venomously when the thatched roofs of Stourbridge finally came into sight. ‘Why has he so suddenly taken it into his head to chew necks? He has never shown cannibalistic tendencies before.’
‘He may be innocent,’ said Bartholomew, although he could see the monk was unconvinced. ‘But you should put your question to Brother Paul, who has much more experience of insanity than I. He may tell you that this kind of violence is not a factor in Clippesby’s particular condition, and that we should be looking to another madman for our culprit.’
Michael knocked at the hospital’s gate, then looked around with interest as they were ushered inside. He did not visit Stourbridge often, and always forgot how impressed he was by its orderly cleanliness. ‘We shall see Paul first, and then …what in God’s name is he doing?’
‘That patient has acute lethargy, so Paul is attempting to cure her by setting her feet in salt water, ringing bells in her ears, and placing feathers under her nose to make her sneeze.’
Michael regarded him askance. ‘Will it work?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Such a course of treatment has sound classical antecedents, although I am sure there must be gentler ways to treat her, as yet undiscovered. In a moment, he will put the feather in her throat to induce retching, then he will bleed her, to rid her of excessive humours.’
‘We should talk to him before he starts, then,’ said Michael hastily. ‘I am already covered in mud, and I do not want to be sprayed with blood and vomit, too.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Brother Paul worriedly, when he saw Bartholomew approaching. ‘Does she seem any better to you?’
Bartholomew considered. ‘No. She seems more listless than ever. But intensive humoral therapy is exhausting, so perhaps you should allow her more rest between sessions.’
Paul regarded his charge with sad eyes. ‘We can try, I suppose, since nothing else seems to be working. What about electuaries and embrocations? Can you recommend any that might help?’
Bartholomew shook his head slowly. ‘Ailments of the mind are a complete mystery to me, and all my training and experience seem to count for nothing when I meet cases like these. You are far wiser about them than I, and you should trust what your own instincts tell you to do.’
‘My instincts are failing me dismally at the moment.’ Paul nodded at the drooping woman who sat disconsolately, with her legs in a bucket and a down scarf around her neck. ‘I make no headway with her, while Clippesby is entirely beyond my skills. I misjudge him at every turn.’
Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘What is the matter? Has he harmed someone? Or himself?’