The Mark of a Murderer (28 page)

‘I assume that is him,’ he said, turning to look at Michael only to find he was alone. He sighed impatiently. ‘I need you
to hold the lamp,’ he shouted up the steps.

‘Set it on a shelf,’ Michael called back. ‘I shall stay here, and say prayers for Okehamptone’s soul. But hurry. It will be
light soon, and I do not want anyone to catch us here. It will look macabre, to say the least.’

Muttering resentfully under his breath that Michael should order him to do something so deeply unpleasant and then decline
to help, Bartholomew grabbed the coffin lid and tugged, anticipating that he would need to find
something to use as a lever, but it yielded easily. The wood was cheap and the barest minimum of nails had been used. He leapt
in alarm when a rat shot out and ran across his hand, and he became aware that more of them were moving in the darkness to
one side, rustling and scratching. Hurrying to be away before they decided that fresh meat might make an interesting change
from old, he turned his attention to the contents of the coffin.

Okehamptone was not a pleasant sight, and Bartholomew was grateful the lamp was dim and masked some of the more grisly details.
He had seen corpses aplenty, but not many after they had been buried or interred, and although there was little difference
in the appearance of one that had been left above ground for two weeks and one that had been in a crypt, there was a subtle
distinction between the two in his mind. He regarded one as part of the duty demanded by his office; the other made him uncomfortable.

Breathing as shallowly as he could, he began his examination. Okehamptone was swathed in a blanket, and the liripipe Paxtone
had mentioned was still around his head and neck. Bartholomew observed that no one had done anything to the body except move
it into its coffin – no one had washed it, brushed its hair or performed any of the usual acts of respect accorded to the
dead.

Wanting to be thorough, Bartholomew ran his hands over the man’s head to assess for bludgeoning, then pulled back some of
his clothes to look for other injuries. If Polmorva had poisoned Okehamptone, then there was nothing Bartholomew could do
now, but he could ascertain whether the cause of death was due to a wound. He completed his examination, careful not to rush
and miss something vital, then shoved the lid back on the box with considerable relief. He used a lump of stone to hammer
the nails home again and left, slipping
and stumbling up the slick steps in his eagerness to be away.

When he reached the chancel, he did not wait for Michael to secure the door after him, but darted straight into the graveyard,
where he stood taking deep breaths of cool, fresh air, savouring the clean, fragrant scent of wet earth and living vegetation.
His legs were unsteady and he was aware that the miasma of old death clung to his clothes. He walked to a nearby ditch, and
crouched down to rinse his hands, using fistfuls of grass to scrub them clean.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, coming to stand next to him. ‘Did he die from a fever?’

‘He may have had one,’ replied Bartholomew, still breathing deeply. ‘But it is not what killed him.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael, although Bartholomew could tell from the expression on his face that he already knew the answer.

‘A wound to his throat,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was completely concealed by the liripipe. Paxtone heard he had a fever, and
thought nothing odd about the victim being wrapped up for warmth. However, Okehamptone bled to death, which explains why Paxtone
said his face – what he could see of it without moving the hood – was pale and waxy.’

‘But even I know a good deal of blood escapes from a throat wound. Surely Paxtone would have noticed that?’

‘I imagine that is why the body was wrapped in the blanket – to hide the blood.’

‘Damn Paxtone! I thought I could trust him. No wonder he refused to accept payment. I thought he was being noble, but it was
because his conscience would not let him take money for something he did not do. So, Okehamptone was murdered after all?’

‘I have seldom seen a more savage injury, and there is no earthly possibility that he could have inflicted it himself.’

Michael sighed. ‘Then there is one more thing I need to know.’

‘You want to know what caused it. It looks like a bite, Brother. Okehamptone died from a wound that shows clearly etched teeth
marks.’

Neither Bartholomew nor Michael wanted to linger near All-Saints-next-the-Castle, so they left the churchyard and walked briskly
down Castle Hill towards the town. Dawn was close, and here and there were signs that folk were stirring. Smoke wafted through
the air as fires were kindled, and lights could be seen through the cracks of the window shutters of those wealthy enough
to afford lamps. A cockerel crowed and a dog barked at the sound of Tulyet’s soldiers marching back to their quarters after
a night on duty.

It was Michael’s turn to conduct the daily mass – although he was a monk, he had been granted dispensation by his bishop to
perform priestly duties during the plague, and he had continued the practice since – and Bartholomew was scheduled to assist
him, so they made their way directly to St Michael’s. While Michael laid out the sacred vessels, Bartholomew busied himself
by checking the level of holy water in the stoup, sweeping the porch and lighting the wax candles that stood on the altar.
Neither spoke, and Bartholomew found himself unsettled by what he had discovered – not to mention the uncomfortable sensation
that Okehamptone had not approved of his meddling. He felt as though something was watching him, and edged closer to the monk.

‘The wick on this candle is defective,’ announced Michael, breaking into his uneasy musings. His voice was loud in the silence,
and Bartholomew jumped. ‘I do not want it to extinguish itself just as the miracle of the sacraments is about to take place.
There are those who would consider it a sign of divine disapproval.’

‘Do you want me to trim it?’

‘No, I want a new one. This is almost finished, and it looks miserly when Michaelhouse always burns its candles down to the
very last scrap of wax.’

Bartholomew left the chancel and went to the large cupboard at the back of the nave where candles and incense were stored.
He thought he saw a flicker of movement behind one of the pillars and his stomach clenched in alarm, but when he went to investigate,
there was nothing to see. He chided himself for his overactive imagination, and supposed it had been a bat, flitting about
in search of insects. He groped for the key that was ‘hidden’ on the windowsill, then removed the bar that kept the cupboard
door from swinging open when it was not locked. He knelt on the floor and began to rummage for the candle, straining to see
in the darkness.

When he felt a breath of movement on the back of his neck, he assumed it was Michael, treading softly on the stone floor.
He was about to tell the monk that there were no candles left, but that he would remind Langelee to order more, when he became
aware that the presence at his shoulder was closer than Michael would have stood. His mind full of Okehamptone’s indignant
spirit, Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, heart thudding in panic. It was his rapid response that saved his life,
for the heavy spade that had been aimed at his head missed, and smashed against the wall with a clang that echoed all around
the building. He jerked away a second time as the implement swung again, and yelled for Michael. Even his tired mind had registered
the fact that spirits did not wield agricultural tools and he knew it was no ghost that was trying to kill him.

The spade descended again, and Bartholomew found himself backed against the cupboard with nowhere to go. He tried to make
out the features of the shadowy figure
that lurched and ducked in front of him, and which seemed so determined to dash out his brains. Was it a thief, who had seen
him enter the church, and thought he would be easy prey before the other scholars arrived? Was it someone connected to the
peculiar case that involved Okehamptone and others being bitten? Foremost in his mind was Polmorva, who would not want the
news spread that Okehamptone’s death was suspicious – even if he had not killed the man himself, he would lose what he had
inherited. Or was Polmorva innocent, and it was someone else who wanted Okehamptone consigned to the ground with no questions
asked?

‘Clippesby?’ he whispered, voicing a terrible fear that his colleague might have escaped from the hospital again. ‘Is that
you?’

‘Matt?’ called Michael, much further away. ‘What are you doing?’

The silhouette faltered, then the spade came at Bartholomew in a jabbing motion. The physician twisted out of the way, lost
his balance and toppled into the cupboard. Sprawled among the incense, he was an easy target, so he was bemused when there
was a loud crash and he was plunged into total darkness. For several moments he did not understand what had happened, then
he heard footsteps and Michael’s querulous voice. The cupboard door had been slammed closed and barred. He kicked and hammered
furiously, but it was still some time before it was opened. He scrambled out and looked around him wildly. There was only
Michael, standing with a pewter chalice clutched in one meaty hand, held like a weapon.

‘What?’ the monk demanded. ‘I thought there was something wrong when you started yelling, and now I find you playing a practical
joke. I was praying, man! Have you no respect?’

‘Someone was here,’ Bartholomew shouted, pushing
past him and aiming for the porch. ‘The door is open. You let him escape!’

‘Let who escape?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘There is no one here.’

‘Someone attacked me with a spade,’ yelled Bartholomew in agitation. He wrenched open the porch door and darted into the
graveyard, looking around to see if he could spot someone running away or hiding. But the only movement was a cat tiptoeing
through the dew-laden grass, trying to keep its feet dry.

‘A spade?’ echoed Michael, following him. ‘Who?’

‘I could not see his face,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated.

‘He was not a very efficient assassin, or you would not be here now, screeching like a demon and waking our neighbours. Keep
your voice down, Matt, or we will be accused of conducting satanic rites that entail hurtling through dark graveyards and
shrieking with gay abandon.’

‘Someone
was
here,’ Bartholomew insisted, although he spoke more softly. Michael was right: window shutters were beginning to ease ajar
in the houses nearby. ‘Surely you saw him?’

‘I heard a good deal of yelling and crashing – all of it coming from you. And, as for the porch door being left open, it could
have been the wind. You know what that latch is like. You are overwrought after examining Okehamptone, and—’

‘I did not imagine anything,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Someone tried to hit me, then locked me in that cupboard, so he could
escape.’

‘The bar
had
been placed across the cupboard door,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I assumed you had rigged it somehow, so it would drop
down on its own, to make me wonder how you had done it. But this attack on you makes no sense. From what you say, the fellow
had you at his mercy but gave up at the last moment.’

‘Probably because you were coming to my aid.’

‘Look,’ said Michael, crossing the grass to point at something. It was a sturdy spade of the kind owned by every man with
a patch of ground to cultivate for vegetables. ‘This was not here when we arrived, so I suppose it is the weapon your would-be
murderer intended to use.’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling weak-kneed now the excitement was over. ‘I saw nothing, other than the fact that he wore a hood
to conceal his face. It could have been anyone: the Oxford merchants, Eudo or Boltone, Polmorva. Or someone from King’s Hall
– Wolf, Norton or Hamecotes.’ He hesitated. ‘Or Clippesby.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his bristles. ‘Did he say anything to you? Did you
recognise his voice?’

‘He said nothing. I asked whether he was Clippesby.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder if that is what saved you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your question may have told him you were not who he wanted. Think, man! Look at what you are wearing: a distinctive grey-hemmed
cloak lent to you by Spryngheuse. And Spryngheuse’s friend Chesterfelde has been murdered.’

Bartholomew considered. ‘We have just walked from Castle Hill, which is the direction we would have taken had we been coming
from Merton Hall. I suppose it is possible that someone mistook me for him in the dark.’

‘So, he followed you, grabbing a spade in anticipation. His first blow missed, you began to yell and he realised he had the
wrong man.’

‘What does this tell us – other than that the attacker is not Spryngheuse?’

‘It suggests it is not Clippesby, either.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘It does not. If Clippesby
really is losing what little reason he has left, then it may just mean that my calling his name brought him to his senses.
And it complicates matters. We have at least two deaths caused by bites, but this man did not use his teeth.’

‘That does not imply we have more than one killer. It might just mean that our man is flexing his wings, learning to experiment
and use whatever comes to hand.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘Lord, Brother! The sooner we resolve this, the happier I will be. I do not feel safe, and I
sense that other people will die if we do not have some answers soon.’

‘I agree. My students will have to do without me for a while, because I should devote myself to this problem until it is solved.
Only then can I be certain that the Archbishop’s Visitation will take place without some madman racing around wielding spades
and flexing his jaws. Will you help me?’

When Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, a messenger was waiting with notification that his postgraduates’ disputations
had been scheduled a week earlier than anticipated, and abandoning them to help Michael was out of the question. The monk
went alone to his office at St Mary the Great, to look at the records that would tell him exactly when Clippesby had applied
for leave of absence over the past year – and when he had been fined for going without permission. He had not been working
long when he saw a familiar figure pass his window. He set off in pursuit, catching up with the fellow as he was lighting
candles in the Lady Chapel.