‘Chesterfelde?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the sudden stream of information. ‘You saw what happened to him? But you just said you did not.’
‘No, I told you I did not kill him,’ corrected Clippesby pedantically. ‘However, I did not see what happened, because I could not bring myself to watch. You know how I deplore violence. The hens were braver: they saw his wrist cut, resulting in his death. The first man was different, though, because it was his throat that was gashed, not his arm.’
‘The first man,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘You mean Okehamptone?’
‘No, Okehamptone died when the wolf had him – the chickens told me about it. Chickens do not like wolves. I am talking about the man who was put in the cistern after Ascension Day.’
‘He is talking about the body you found when you were rescuing me,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, although the physician did not need him to state the obvious. ‘We have four victims with throat injuries now: Gonerby, Okehamptone, the cistern man and Rougham.’
‘But I cannot say for certain whether all four of those were claimed by the wolf,’ said Clippesby. ‘Just the two I was watching when the wolf found them – Rougham and the man in the cistern – and Okehamptone, because the chickens told me about him. I know nothing about your Gonerby, while Chesterfelde was most certainly not killed by the wolf.’
‘This wolf,’ said Bartholomew carefully. ‘Have you spoken to him at all?’
‘I would have nothing to say to a creature like that. I do not associate with rough beasts that kill for pleasure, only with those who can help me understand the natural universe.’
‘Then what about the chickens?’ pressed Michael. ‘Did they talk to it?’
‘Do not be ridiculous, Brother! I have already told you that hens dislike wolves.’
‘Hopefully, Tulyet will retrieve this other body today,’ said Michael. ‘Then we might have some answers – some rational answers.’ He shot Clippesby a reproachful glance.
‘It happened more than a week ago now,’ mused Clippesby, lost in reverie. ‘I went to the towpath, where there are always birds ready to talk – moorhens, geese and ducks. I met the hens, and we were appalled when our philosophical debate was interrupted by murder.’
‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Michael with a sigh, valiantly striving to distil truth from the confused jumble of information that Clippesby was spouting. ‘Exactly.’
‘I saw nothing, as I told you already. But the chickens saw the man’s throat bitten out.’
Bartholomew and Michael argued all the way back to Michaelhouse. Bartholomew thought Clippesby had picked up snippets of gossip when he had escaped to wander in the town, while Michael claimed he knew too much for his knowledge to have been innocently obtained. He believed Clippesby’s inexplicable absences from Stourbridge were proof that he was deranged enough to kill and remember nothing later, except for the snatches of information he attributed to his animal friends.
‘You know he is good at eavesdropping,’ Bartholomew insisted. ‘He always has been, ever since he arrived in Cambridge. He sits very still for long periods of time in odd places. He may well have witnessed these murders.’
‘I cannot believe you trust him. He is demented! You are a physician – you do not need me to tell you this. He cannot distinguish between reality and fiction, and he genuinely believes animals talk to him. He is the chickens and the rats who saw these murders, and he is also the wolf that committed them.’
‘He cannot be both.’
‘Then how is he aware of the man in the cistern? The only folk who know about him are you, me and Tulyet. And the killer, of course.’
‘Not true. All sorts of people will have heard about him by now: Dick’s soldiers, the inhabitants of Merton Hall who came to haul us out. And what about Eudo and Boltone? They knew about the corpse, or they would not have attacked us when we approached the place where it was hidden.’
Michael declined to be diverted. ‘Clippesby might not understand what he has done, but he is our man. I am becoming increasingly certain of it.’
‘Well, I am not. He seems so rational at times.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I am completely out of my depth with him, Michael. Most of the time he is gentle and innocently fascinated by the natural world, no matter how bizarre his methods of gathering information about it.’
‘I see we will not agree until we have more evidence.’ Michael sighed. ‘I am grateful Paul has agreed to keep him under lock and key until we tell him otherwise. It is better this way – for him as well as for us. I do not want him racing up the High Street and biting the Archbishop of Canterbury’s throat, while the rest of us are all busily trying to impress the man.’
Bartholomew was deeply unhappy with the step Michael had insisted they take, which entailed securing Clippesby in his cell and not allowing him out to help with the other patients. Clippesby said nothing, but his eyes held an immense hurt that had cut Bartholomew to the quick. He only hoped the case would be resolved quickly, and the Dominican could be either freed or convicted. He was certain either would be preferable to the friar than an indefinite prison sentence. He promised to bring scrolls, to help him pass his long hours of solitude and, on a whim, offered to find a cat or a puppy to keep him company. Clippesby declined, claiming he would not wish imprisonment on any living thing, and that the hell visited on him for communing with nature was his to bear alone, and not to be inflicted on other innocent creatures.
Physician and monk were still quarrelling when they met Tulyet. The Sheriff was striding along the High Street with some of his men, all of whom were dirty, wet and scowling, and Bartholomew supposed they had just finished searching the cistern. Tulyet did not seem overly pleased to see his friends, and Bartholomew sensed something was wrong.
‘Have you confiscated that bow from Dickon yet?’ asked Michael, either not noticing Tulyet’s cool manner or not caring. ‘If not, I would like to borrow him for a while. There are a number of people in this town I would not mind him dispatching.’
‘Do not jest about such things,’ said Tulyet curtly. ‘There are several folk he dislikes, and my wife is terrified he may try to shoot them, just as he did Eudo.’
‘Dickon disliked Eudo?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I was not aware they even knew each other.’
‘Dickon likes to look over our boundary wall, but Eudo took exception, and words were exchanged. So were stones at one point. I did not know about this until today, because my wife was afraid I would be angry. She says Eudo came to complain about it.’
‘Dickon lobbed rocks at him?’ Michael was amused.
‘They threw them at each other, apparently,’ said Tulyet. ‘But Dickon’s were better aimed.’
‘I am not surprised Eudo objected to a pair of curious eyes, given what has been happening around his cistern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Clippesby claims to have witnessed a murder there a week ago, and says that was where Chesterfelde received his fatal injury, too. But Dickon saved us with his timely arrow, and I shall always be grateful to him.’
Tulyet gave a tight smile. ‘That is the only spark of light in this nasty affair: Dickon rescued two dear friends.’
‘Twice,’ said Michael. ‘Once when he shot Eudo and drove him away, and again when he fetched you to pull us out of the well. Has he told you about anything else he saw? I know Matt thinks Clippesby is a credible witness, who will impress any jury with his clarity and common sense, but I would sooner trust Dickon.’
‘You could never believe anything Clippesby says,’ said Tulyet, regarding Bartholomew as though he was insane himself. ‘He told me he was a monkey last month.’