Bartholomew had started with Vale, because he happened to be the nearest. Deftly, he removed his colleague’s clothes, so he could look for injuries or suspicious marks, but there was only one: the puncture wound between his shoulder blades. The arrow’s shaft had been snipped off to facilitate transport the previous day, but its head was still in place, and he was surprised by how easy it was to remove. Puzzled, he took a probe and inserted it into the hole. The laceration was shallow, and unlikely to have been fatal.
He turned Vale on to his back, and pushed on his chest – if froth bubbled from the nose and mouth, it meant water had mixed with air in the lungs. In other words, the victim had drowned. But what seeped from Vale was clear, and there was not a bubble in sight. He began a more systematic examination, looking for evidence of disease or other injuries. There was an ancient scar on Vale’s knee, but nothing else was apparent.
Trying not to let his bafflement influence him, he moved to the next corpse, which was the older of the two London brothers. Again, there was no evidence of drowning. The younger sibling yielded an equally curious lack of symptoms, and so did Northwood.
When he had done all he could, Bartholomew replaced their clothes, then sat back on his heels and stared at the corpses in confusion. How had they died? Could they have swallowed poison? But then how had they all ended up in Newe Inn’s pond?
Absently, he took a knife from his bag, wondering whether anyone would notice if he made a small incision to inspect the inside of one of the victims’ stomachs. He had never done such a thing before, but he had witnessed a dissection in Salerno where a case of poisoning had been discovered by a mass of ulcers in the innards. There had been no external symptoms, and the killer might have escaped justice had it not been for the skill of the anatomist.
But defiling the dead was frowned upon in England, although Bartholomew considered it a foolish restriction, because much could be learned from cadavers. Without conscious thought, the knife in his hand descended towards Vale’s middle.
‘What are you doing?’ came an incredulous voice behind him.
Bartholomew leapt to his feet and spun around to find himself facing Dunning and Julitta. Dunning’s aristocratic face was pale with horror, although Julitta seemed composed.
‘Examining these bodies,’ he replied, aware that his voice was far from steady. It was partly because Dunning’s loud question had made him jump, but mostly because he had been a hair’s breadth from doing something recklessly grisly. He was horrified with himself, not for almost giving in to the urge to delve into the forbidden art of anatomy, but for coming so close to doing it in St Mary the Great.
‘With a knife?’ demanded Dunning sceptically.
‘If he is to conduct a thorough examination, he must remove their clothes, Father,’ said Julitta reasonably. ‘Obviously, the blade is to deal with stubborn laces.’
‘What is wrong with untying them?’ asked Dunning, still unconvinced.
‘They have been immersed in water,’ explained Julitta patiently. ‘And water causes knots to tighten. You know this.’
Bartholomew stared at her, noting the way her fine kirtle hugged the slim lines of her body and her hair caught the sunlight from the windows. When she smiled at him, he found himself thinking that Surgeon Holm was a very lucky man.
‘Well, it looked to me as though he was going to take a lump out of Vale,’ Dunning was saying, disgust vying for precedence with horror in his voice. ‘There are tales that say he is in league with the Devil, and I know such men need bits of corpses for their diabolical spells.’
‘Doctor Bartholomew is not a sorcerer,’ said Julitta firmly, while Bartholomew continued to gaze gratefully at her. ‘That is a silly story put about by the likes of my brother-in-law. I am fond of Weasenham, but he really is the most dreadful gossip.’
‘He is,’ conceded Dunning. ‘But he was a good match for Ruth, so I am not complaining.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So have you learned anything from these hapless corpses yet? They died in the property I have donated to your University, so I have a right to ask.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Michael, who had heard voices and had come to investigate. ‘And you shall have a full account as soon as my Corpse Examiner has written his official report. Would you like me to bring it to your house later? Perhaps close to the time your dinner is served?’
Julitta’s eyes widened at the brazen hint, and she smothered a smile. ‘You are welcome to dine with us, Brother,’ she said graciously. ‘And Doctor Bartholomew must come, too, lest we have any technical questions.’
‘But I want to know what he has surmised now,’ objected her father.
‘Of course you do, but he has not finished yet,’ said Julitta. ‘And we must visit the Market Square, to ask the baker to increase the amount of bread we dispense to the poor. Summer might be here at last, but the crops are still far from ripe, and they need our charity more than ever now their winter supplies are exhausted.’
‘You are lucky Julitta has a quick brain and an eye for a pretty face,’ said Michael, once she and Dunning had gone. His green eyes were wide with shock. ‘I saw exactly what you were going to do with that knife. No, do not deny it, Matt! It was obvious. What in God’s name were you thinking?’
Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I was not thinking, Brother. I do not feel well, and my wits are like mud this morning.’
‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did those men hurt you when they attacked last night?’
‘No – I swallowed too much of Newe Inn’s pond. It is not healthy to drink water that contains corpses. In fact, it is not healthy to drink water at all, unless it has been thoroughly boiled and—’
‘None of your wild theories today, please,’ interrupted Michael, still angry. ‘However, I would like to know what you have learned about our victims.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘There are no injuries – the arrow wound in Vale is superficial – and they were not suffering from any obvious diseases or ailments.’
‘They drowned, then. They fell or were pushed into the pond.’
‘They did not drown. The only other thing I can think of is poison, which was why I …’ Bartholomew waved the hand that still held the knife.
Michael looked away quickly. ‘Surely, there is a better way to find out than dissection?’
‘Not that I am aware: there is nothing in their mouths to suggest they swallowed a toxin, and no marks on their hands. However, they may have ingested something that damaged their stomachs or lungs, but that will only be determined by an internal examination.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There will be no anatomising in my jurisdiction.’
‘Then I can tell you no more, Brother. Externally, there is nothing to suggest anything other than natural deaths.’
‘All four of them? At the same time? I do not think so!’
‘And they did all die at roughly the same time.’ Bartholomew turned to stare at the bodies again. ‘Clippesby saw them entering Newe Inn’s grounds together on Tuesday night, and Browne found them dead on Wednesday morning.’
Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping on the bristles. ‘What about communal suicide?’
‘Four men agreeing to take their own lives simultaneously would have had a very strong reason for doing so, and that reason is likely to have been explained in a note or a message left with friends. There was no such missive, or you would have mentioned it. Moreover, your theory does not explain why Vale was shot.’
‘The arrow,’ pounced Michael. ‘Perhaps they were forced to jump into the pond.’
‘Then they would have drowned, which they did not. However, you are right in that it means someone else was there when they died – someone who put their corpses in the water. And Clippesby saw them enter the garden with one or two other people …’
‘And other people, at least one of whom was armed with a bow, means murder.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I am afraid you will have to a
sk the culprits how they dispatched their victims, because your Corpse Examiner cannot do it.’
‘I shall,’ determined Michael. ‘Your point about a message left with friends is an interesting concept, though. We shall spend the rest of the morning questioning those who knew them best.’
‘You did not do that last night after leaving Weasenham?’
‘No – I was busy quelling a fight between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel over the Common Library. So first we shall visit Weasenham’s shop, to ask about the London brothers. Then Gonville Hall to enquire after Vale. And finally the Carmelite Friary regarding Northwood.’
Bartholomew fell into step at his side, and they walked along the High Street to the stationer’s premises. It was full of activity as usual, crammed with scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without paying for them, some passing the time of day with friends, and others queuing up to be served. Weasenham was with a customer, so Bartholomew and Michael were obliged to wait. While they did so, the monk took a leaf out of Weasenham’s book, and began to gossip.
‘Our stationer did well when he married Ruth Dunning.’
‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was more interested in Weasenham’s wares, wishing he had funds to spare. He needed more parchment for the treatise on fevers he was writing, and he was running low on ink, too. Unfortunately, any money he earned was needed to buy medicine for those of his patients who could not afford it themselves, and luxuries like writing equipment were currently beyond his means.
‘Oh, yes. Dunning will invest handsomely in the business now, which will allow Weasenham to expand. In fact, I think he already has, because look at the number of books that are on sale today. He never had that many in the past. He even has Augustine’s De Trinitate!’
‘And Dioscorides’s De Materia Medica.’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘I have not seen that in its entirety for years. Perhaps this copy is destined for the Common Library, and I shall be able to read it. Or maybe Holm will give me five marks, so I can buy it for myself.’
‘Five marks? Why would he give you such an enormous sum?’
‘When he learns that Isnard and the riverfolk are not killers and smugglers,’ replied Bartholomew. He shrugged when he saw Michael’s mystified expression. ‘He irritated me into agreeing a wager.’
‘But you do not have five marks!’ cried Michael. ‘And you will certainly need it, because Isnard is a scoundrel, and you are a fool if you think him untarnished. And as for the riverfolk …’
‘Yes, but they do not kill,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘And I do not believe they are connected with the smugglers Dick Tulyet is hunting, either.’
‘We had better speak to Weasenham,’ said Michael, declining to argue. ‘He is still busy, but I cannot wait here all day. Who knows what else you may do or say to shock me in the interim?’
Weasenham was at the front of his shop, standing behind a table as he demonstrated to a group of fascinated scribes why quills made from swan feathers were better than those from geese. His audience comprised mostly friars who worked in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and included Riborowe and Jorz. He was being assisted by his wife and his Exemplarius.
‘Two birds with one stone,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You can quiz the White Friars about Northwood at the same time.’
‘No – it is better to tackle them separately. Look at Jorz’s hands! Are they stained with blood? We had better loiter behind these shelves for a while. We could learn a lot by eavesdropping.’
‘… did not succeed,’ Jorz was twittering to Weasenham. ‘I tried adding red lead, to see if that would help, but the ink took just as long to dry. How goes your paper-making?’
‘We have done nothing since we heard that John and Philip London …’ Bonabes swallowed hard. ‘We shall start experimenting again after their funerals.’
The birdlike Jorz crossed himself. ‘Perhaps we should suspend our work until after our brother Northwood is buried, as a mark of respect. What do you think, Riborowe?’
‘Why?’ asked Riborowe. ‘He voted against our Prior’s orders in the matter of the Common Library, and I have still not forgiven him for it.’
‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Weasenham in a conspiratorial voice, while the other Carmelites gaped their shock at Riborowe’s unfeeling remark. ‘About the murder of Sawtre in King’s Hall? Someone pushed a heavy bookcase on top of him, and—’
‘Warden Shropham said it was an accident,’ interrupted Bonabes. ‘He stated quite firmly that Sawtre tugged on a piece of furniture that was notoriously unstable.’
‘Well, he would,’ said Weasenham maliciously. ‘But I know better. Sawtre was killed because he voted against his College. King’s Hall does not take kindly to treachery.’
‘That is untrue!’ cried Ruth. ‘Sawtre was—’
‘Tell me what you know about the Newe Inn murders,’ said Weasenham, cutting across her to address the Carmelites, all of whom were regarding him with contempt. They exchanged pained glances at the mention of the place where one of their brethren had died.
‘We know nothing at all,’ replied Jorz. ‘A beadle came last night to report Northwood’s death, but he was unable to tell us how or why it had happened. And since then, Prior Etone has kept us too busy saying masses for Northwood’s soul to ask questions.’
‘And busy making ink, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. Michael jabbed him with his elbow, warning him to be quiet.
‘Does Northwood’s soul need prayers, then?’ fished Weasenham. ‘I imagine it does – I have heard tales about him.’
Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm as the physician began to step forward, unwilling to stand by while a man he had liked was maligned.
‘Northwood was a hard taskmaster to the novices under his care,’ Jorz was saying icily, while behind his back several of the younger friars exchanged glances that indicated this was an understatement. ‘But he was honest and fair. There will be no “tales” about him.’
‘Oh, yes, there will,’ said Weasenham smugly. ‘Because he was a thief.’
Michael’s grip intensified when Bartholomew started forward a second time. ‘Wait!’ he hissed. ‘Thelnetham said much the same, and I want to hear what Weasenham has to say.’
‘Husband, please,’ begged Ruth. ‘Northwood is dead, and it is not nice to speak ill of him.’
‘I speak as I find,’ snapped Weasenham, displeased by the admonition. ‘There is a ridiculous tendency in this town to think that anyone who dies before his time was a saint. Well, Northwood did some very devious things, and the fact that he suffered a premature end does not change that.’
‘And what did he do, exactly?’ asked Jorz, frost in his voice.
Well,’ began Weasenham, delighted to be asked, ‘it involves the exemplars your novices prepare in the scriptorium.’
‘The Carmelites do not produce exemplars,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, bemused. ‘They create beautiful works of art – bibles, prayer books and psalters.’
‘Exercise pieces.’ Riborowe’s expression was as puzzled as Michael’s. ‘To allow them to hone their skills. It was my idea: I remember from my own noviciate how disheartening it was to produce texts that no one ever looked at, so I decided that they should copy parts of great theological works instead. Then we can sell them to you, and the money covers the cost of the materials they use, with a little left over for the poor. But why do you—’
‘They produced two last week,’ interrupted Weasenham. ‘And I paid for both. However, when I mentioned the matter to Prior Etone, it became clear that Northwood had only handed him the cash for one of them. He had kept the rest for himself.’
‘No,’ said Jorz firmly. ‘You are mistaken. Northwood would not have done that.’
‘He told us that the work on one of the exemplars was substandard,’ said Riborowe, ‘and thus unfit to be sold. He only brought the better copy here …’
‘No, he brought two, and the work on both was excellent,’ glo
ated Weasenham. ‘I can show you if you like. Fetch them, Bonabes.’
‘No,’ said Jorz stiffly. ‘We do not want to see. Come, brothers. We are finished here.’
The door closed after them with a resounding crack.
‘There will be an explanation for what Northwood is accused of doing,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, refusing to believe ill of the man. ‘Weasenham has a nasty way of twisting even the most innocuous of incidents. He is a malign force, and I wish the University would oust him.’
‘Unfortunately, we need more than a penchant for intrigue to deprive him of his livelihood. Rumour-mongering is despicable, but not illegal, no matter what you think of it.’
Weasenham’s sly face became eager when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, anticipating that they would supply him with more information to fuel his scurrilous tongue. Next to him, Ruth hung her head, while Bonabes grimaced.
‘I suppose you are here to provide details about the London brothers,’ Weasenham said. ‘Good. I am distressed by their demise, and demand to know what happened to them.’
‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael flatly. ‘But I need information before I can furnish you with answers. What can you tell me about them?’
Weasenham looked disappointed, but began to oblige, always ready to talk about someone else. ‘They worked with me for years, and we rubbed along nicely together. I shall miss them, although not nearly as much as Adam. He was cheap, whereas I was obliged to pay them a decent wage.’
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, unimpressed. ‘Or is that it?’
‘Well, they were sanctimonious,’ Weasenham went on. ‘They told me I was a gossip, which was unfair. All I do is share information with friends. Where lies the harm in that?’
‘They had no family, other than each other, and they lived in the house next door,’ supplied Bonabes, rather more practically. ‘They were polite and kind, but tended to keep to themselves.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 10
