Bartholomew described what had happened, leaving out only the fact that he had hidden Clippesby in a place only he and Agatha knew. Michael immediately jumped to the conclusion that Clippesby had been afraid the Oxford merchants would hang him, and had fled the area completely. Bartholomew said nothing to disabuse him of the notion.
‘Damn! The Archbishop is due this afternoon, and we shall have to welcome him knowing there is a killer stalking our streets with a metal dentition. I hope to God this wolf does not have designs on Islip, because, if he strikes, our University will be suppressed for certain. I know Canterbury became famous after the murder of Thomas à Becket, but I do not want Cambridge to be known for killing archbishops, too. We do not have a cathedral.’
‘I do not think the wolf wants Islip,’ said Bartholomew.
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? You think this murder and mayhem just before the Visitation is coincidence? Well, you are wrong. I believe he is following a very specific agenda, which includes making Cambridge appear every bit as unstable and riotous as Oxford. Thus, he may well strike at the Archbishop. But we should go to see Matilde. She is worried about you.’
‘Before breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew, aware that Michael’s good intentions regarding his diet had already floundered once in the face of his appetite.
‘Yes,’ said Michael, taking his arm. ‘I want Rougham back at Gonville before any more of the day passes – for all our sakes.’
‘What happened last night?’
‘Matilde was sleeping on a bench in her parlour, while Rougham had the bed in the upper chamber. She fled upstairs when the wolf burst into her house, and together she and Rougham barred the door and managed to keep him at bay. He tried to smoke them out by lighting a fire under the door, but you had insisted that bowls of water be left upstairs lest Rougham’s fever returned, and they were able to douse the flames before they did any serious harm.’
Bartholomew set a cracking pace along the slowly lightening streets. He left Michael far behind, puffing, wheezing and complaining that such frenzied activities were not good for a man with an empty stomach. When Bartholomew reached Matilde’s house, he hammered furiously on her door, not caring that Weasenham’s window shutters immediately eased open. She opened it, a little angrily, to see who was waking her neighbours with his racket, and he shoved his way inside and took her by the shoulders, looking her up and down in concern.
‘I am all right,’ she said, smiling reassuringly.
‘And so am I,’ said Rougham wryly, aware that his colleague had not so much as glanced in his direction. ‘Together, we managed to repel whoever burst in last night. We were fortunate Matilde is a light sleeper, or who knows what might have happened?’
‘Doctor Rougham tore a sheet into pieces, and was going to lower me on to the roof of the house next door,’ said Matilde to Bartholomew. Her face was pale; glancing up the stairs, Bartholomew saw black marks where the killer had set his blaze. There were deep grooves in the door, too, as if he had used an axe. ‘We were becoming desperate.’
‘And who would have lowered you to safety?’ asked Bartholomew of Rougham.
‘I was going to fetch the de Blaston family,’ said Matilde weakly. ‘That was the plan we agreed on as we struggled to quench the flames: I would run for help, and return to rescue Master Rougham.’
‘Yes,’ said Rougham softly, and Bartholomew saw he had not expected her to be in time. He had been ready to sacrifice himself to save the woman he had come so suddenly to respect and admire.
‘Weasenham,’ said Bartholomew heavily, thinking about what must have happened. ‘He saw you in Matilde’s window the other day, and he must have chatted about it to his customers – one of whom is the killer, and who decided to come and finish what he had started.’
‘Probably,’ said Rougham tiredly. ‘I did not see the fellow’s face last night, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that it was not Clippesby – he moved in a completely different way – slower and less graceful. Do you have any other ideas, now my main suspect is exonerated?’
‘None at all,’ lied Bartholomew, refusing to entertain the possibility that Duraunt could be the culprit. ‘But I know more about the teeth that were used on you now. They are metal, devised by an Oxford scholar many years ago, to help edentulous people to eat.’
‘That is a good idea,’ said Rougham, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘False teeth. But metal will be hard on ancient gums, and what will fit one man will not match another. They would have to be individually tailored. How were they made? Were there two separate pieces for upper and lower fangs, or were they linked?’
‘Linked,’ said Bartholomew. He remembered them vividly. ‘With a hinge on either side.’
‘Did they work?’
‘Not very well. But these have been adapted for use as a killing weapon, because I am sure the originals were not honed so sharp. Someone came after me with them last night – after he realised he would have no luck here.’ He glanced at Matilde. ‘The thick material of that liripipe saved me.’
‘My recollection of the night I was bitten is hazy, as you know,’ said Rougham thoughtfully. ‘I remember falling over and I certainly remember the agony, but the attack itself is a blur until I saw Clippesby standing over me. But your words have sparked a dormant memory. I did see a metal object during the fracas, just before the searing pain in my shoulder. It may well have been these teeth, and that would explain why they did me so much damage.’
Bartholomew thought about his shredded hood. ‘Excrement was smeared on them, too.’
‘To be certain of causing an infection, should the injury not prove instantly fatal,’ mused Rougham, understanding at once. ‘What does this mean? That our killer is a physician, because he knows how to make a wound turn rotten? It is not you or me, so we are left with Paxtone or Lynton. Lynton is too old and lazy for such activities, which leaves . . .’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Paxtone.’
‘He is at King’s Hall,’ Rougham pointed out. ‘So was Hamecotes.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew again, appalled that another person he liked should be accused. ‘It is probably someone from Oxford. Polmorva, who owned the teeth. Or . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Or who?’ asked Matilde. ‘Duraunt? Your kindly old teacher, who drinks heavily in taverns and who lies about his love affair with soporifics? The man who seems rather too friendly with that nasty Polmorva, and who has a will of iron under that oh-so-gentle exterior?’
‘Poppy juice and wine is a powerful combination,’ said Rougham to Bartholomew. ‘They could change him from a kindly ancient into something savage.’
Bartholomew recalled the demonic strength of the hands around his throat, and the grim determination of the wolf to rip his skin with the filth-smeared teeth. ‘He is not strong enough.’
‘Not even when intoxicated?’ pressed Rougham. ‘Your experience as a physician will have taught you that even the meekest of men can turn into raging lions when they swallow dangerous remedies.’
‘I know, but . . .’ said Bartholomew, feeling exhaustion wash over him as his conviction in Duraunt’s innocence began to waver, ‘…but I do not believe it of him.’
Rougham laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder in the first gesture of friendship he had ever offered, while Matilde took his hand and raised it to her lips. He looked into her eyes and was suddenly overwhelmed with the utter conviction that it was the right time to ask her to marry him, whether Rougham was present or no.
‘Matilde,’ he began. ‘Will you …?’
‘Lord!’ puffed Michael, gasping for breath in the doorway. ‘I am exhausted after that run!’
Michael waddled across the room and flopped on to a bench, where he sat fanning himself with his loose sleeve. Matilde released Bartholomew’s hand and went to fetch ale to help him recover, while Rougham lowered himself on a bench, wincing at the pain in his injured shoulder.