‘When you say “King’s Hall rats” are you referring to small furry rodents or to men in tabards?’ asked Michael cautiously.
‘Rodents, of course,’ said Clippesby, annoyed. ‘I do not insult rats by likening them to people.’
‘Do they or the chickens know anything about Eudo or Boltone?’ asked Michael. He sounded uncomfortable, unsure of how to deal with the strange realities of Clippesby’s world.
Clippesby scratched his head. ‘I do not think so, but I can ask. The problem with hens is that they are not always interested in the same things as us, and one needs to question them very carefully to determine whether or not they know anything of relevance. It is quite an art.’
‘I can well imagine,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I have encountered similar problems myself. But I need to ask you more questions, if you have no objection. Matt and I have been investigating a very complex case, and you may be able to help us.’
Clippesby nodded sombrely. ‘Of course. I am always willing to be of service to you, although you should be aware that a desire to help is not the same as being able to help. But ask your questions, and we shall see. As the hedgehogs of Peterhouse always say, if you do not ask, you will not receive.’
‘Right.’ Michael cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Where did you go in February, when you abandoned your teaching for ten days without permission?’
‘You have already fined me for that,’ said Clippesby, immediately defensive. ‘You cannot punish me twice for the same offence. Besides, I told you what happened: an owl came and told me my father was ill, so I went without delay to visit him in Norfolk.’
‘Norfolk?’ asked Michael. ‘Not Oxford?’
Clippesby grimaced. ‘Certainly not. I dislike Oxford, and would never go there willingly.’
‘Was your father unwell?’
‘No,’ admitted Clippesby. ‘The owl must have confused him with someone else.’
‘Then what about your more recent absences? Where were you on the eve of Ascension Day?’
‘That was the night Rougham was attacked and I saved his life,’ replied Clippesby resentfully. ‘I wish I had not bothered, because then I would not be incarcerated here. However, I do not recall exactly where else I was that evening. You had plied me with too much wine earlier, Brother, and my wits were addled.’
‘That had nothing to do with the wine,’ muttered Michael. ‘Then what about last Saturday?’
‘You think I had something to do with the murder at Merton Hall – the man with the cut wrist?’ asked Clippesby. He saw Michael’s surprise that he should know about Chesterfelde, and smiled enigmatically. ‘The chickens mentioned what had happened – I told you I am friendly with them. But I did not kill anyone, Brother. I do not waste time with people when there are animals to talk to. What they say is worth hearing, unlike the vicious ramblings of men.’ Abruptly he turned his attention to Bartholomew, who was simultaneously disconcerted and startled by the penetrating stare. ‘I know what you are thinking.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, sincerely hoping he did not. He had lost interest in the discussion, and his thoughts had turned to Matilde. In the dusty gloom of Clippesby’s chamber he had reached a decision, and he knew with absolute certainty that it was the right one. He would marry Matilde. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, and his Fellowship was a small price to pay for the honour of spending the rest of his life with such a woman. His mind now irrevocably made up, he felt strangely sanguine about the University and its various mysteries. It occurred to him that he should probably confide his plans to Matilde before resigning and making arrangements to secure them a house, and determined to do so at the first opportunity. He did not countenance the appalling possibility that she might decline his offer.
Clippesby frowned slightly, noting the distant look in his colleague’s eyes. ‘I know what you think about me,’ he said, correcting himself.
‘And what is that?’ asked Bartholomew pleasantly, ready to embrace the whole world in his new-found happiness and serenity.
‘You order me to stay here, because you say folk do not understand my kinship with animals and you are afraid someone may hurt me. But the reality is that you are one of those people. You may not wish me harm, but you no more understand my relationship with the natural world than they do. You are just like them, only you hide your opinions behind a veil of concern.’
‘He is worried about you,’ said Michael gently, while Bartholomew gazed at him in dismay, uncomfortably aware that he was right. His brief surge of bliss vanished, leaving him with the sense that he had let Clippesby down. He did not understand him, and was probably no better than others in that respect – worse, even, because his inability to physic him had led to his incarceration.
‘And you want me here because you are afraid my idiosyncrasies might reflect badly on Michaelhouse when the Archbishop comes,’ said Clippesby, rounding on the monk. ‘You are afraid I will say or do something that will make us a laughing stock. After all, what College wants a Fellow whose behaviour is so unlike anyone else’s?’
‘You are right,’ agreed Michael bluntly. ‘I was relieved when Matt suggested you come here for a few days. The Visitation is important, and I cannot risk anything or anyone damaging our prospects.’
Clippesby laughed harshly. ‘Honesty! Well, at least that is refreshing. But you need to open your mind, Brother. Just because I do not distil my knowledge from books does not make me insane.’
‘Talking to animals is not something normal men do,’ said Michael with an unrepentant shrug.
‘Saint Francis did it,’ countered Clippesby. ‘And no one accused him of madness.’
‘He was kind to animals – he did not ask their advice and repeat their philosophical theories. There is a difference. But this debate is going nowhere, because we will never agree.’
‘No,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘We will not. So, what will you do? Lock me here until I conform to your way of thinking and admit I am wrong? Send me to some remote parish, where I will never see an Archbishop’s Visitation? Or slit my throat and be rid of the embarrassment permanently?’
‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, appalled he should think they would consider such dire options.
‘No?’ asked Clippesby sharply. ‘No what? No to murder or exile, or no to letting me return to my duties at Michaelhouse?’
‘No to the latter, and that is for certain,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Two men, possibly more, have died from peculiar wounds and Rougham was seriously injured. He says he saw you attack him, so you are currently at the top of my list of suspects. I want you to remain here until you are either exonerated or we have positive proof of your guilt. Only then will we discuss what to do next.’
‘I have not killed anyone,’ reiterated Clippesby angrily. ‘I cannot imagine why you insist on believing Rougham over me, when you know what the man is like. He lies. Have I ever lied to you?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Michael. ‘But I never know when to believe you. Sometimes you speak gibberish, while other times you make perfect sense.’
‘I will stay,’ said Clippesby, gesturing to his bed. ‘But you will find I have nothing to do with these crimes. When you do – and only then – we shall talk sensibly, and discuss how best to live with each other’s oddities.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘Some of us are more odd than others, so will have to make bigger concessions.’
Clippesby smiled. ‘I am willing to be flexible, Brother. However, it is not your gross eccentricity I was referring to. It is Father William’s.’
‘Now there we do agree. I just have one more thing to ask. When you talked about us keeping you here or killing you, why did you select a slit throat as the means of execution?’