‘I shall make him parish priest at Girton soon,’ he whispered. ‘He objects, of course, as he loves being here. But he will need what remains of his eyesight to settle into his new life.’
‘I draw chickens, too,’ Willelmus was saying shyly, smiling up at Michael.
‘Chickens?’ asked the monk, amused. ‘Is there much call for fowl in sacred manuscripts, then?’
Willelmus nodded fervently. ‘You would be surprised at how often they can be inserted, Brother. They are lovable beasts, and it amuses me to immortalise them.’
‘Right,’ said Michael, regarding him as though he were short of a few wits.
‘Meanwhile, Jorz here does climbing foliage,’ boasted Etone. ‘And devils.’
Jorz smiled rather diabolically. ‘It is good to remind people that not everything is pretty flowers and happy hens. The occasional demon lurking in the greenery is a warning that Satan is never far away. People should remember this, even when reading their scriptures.’
‘There are rather more imps here than angels,’ remarked Michael, squinting over Jorz’s work. Willelmus was not the only one whose eyesight was not all it had been. ‘Is that appropriate?’
‘Prior Etone says I must not draw cherubs and devils with the same hand,’ explained Jorz. ‘So I paint fiends with my left, which is comfortable, but I am clumsy with my right, so angels take longer and are not so fine when I have finished. That is why there are more demons.’
Etone shrugged when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I was afraid there might be an urge to make them overly similar, otherwise. And then where would we be, theologically speaking?’
‘I specialise in depicting weapons,’ declared Riborowe, cutting into the bemused silence that followed. ‘And my bows, bombards, swords and ribauldequins have dispatched many a chicken and sprite. I get the manuscripts last, you see, to add the finishing touches.’
Michael’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. ‘You amaze me! I would have thought there was even less demand for weapons in sacred texts than for poultry and denizens of Hell.’
‘The Bible is a very violent book,’ said Riborowe approvingly. ‘It is full of wars, battles, fights and murders, and people are always smiting enemies. So is God. Look at the ribauldequin I have drawn here. It is a perfect copy of the ones used at Poitiers.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael doubtfully.
‘Because I was there,’ declared Riborowe proudly. ‘I was a chaplain with the English army.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘How many more of our scholars are going to confess to taking part in that vicious occasion? We have three so far, with you, Holm and Matt.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Riborowe, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant glance before going to fetch more ink from a little antechamber at the far end of the room. He called back over his shoulder, as he went, ‘However, I did not wield a weapon and nor did I side with the French, like Holm.’
‘You are limping,’ observed Bartholomew. He might not have remarked on it, but Dame Pelagia’s words about men with leg wounds clamoured at him, and Riborowe’s look had irritated him.
‘I tripped running away from a batch of ink that exploded,’ said the friar, rather coolly. He held up red-stained hands. ‘See the mess it made?’
‘When did—’ began Bartholomew.
‘Look at this manuscript,’ interrupted Jorz, brandishing a sheaf of pages that were a blaze of colour. ‘It is a gift for Sir Eustace Dunning – a Book of Hours.’
‘If we give it to him,’ said Etone grimly. ‘I have not forgiven him for depriving us of Newe Inn yet. Or for facilitating the establishment of a Common Library.’
‘Speaking of Newe Inn, do any of you know what Northwood was doing in its grounds?’ asked Michael. ‘Or why he should have been there with Vale and the London brothers?’
‘I have no idea at all,’ replied Riborowe. ‘We have a lovely garden here, in the friary.’
‘When did you last see him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Tuesday evening,’ supplied Riborowe. ‘He said he was going to find somewhere quiet to read. The next day, we noticed that his bed had not been slept in.’
‘Was that unusual?’ asked Bartholomew.
It was Etone who answered. ‘No. He was an avid reader, even at night when he was obliged to use a lamp. He told me he was looking forward to your success with good fuel, Matthew, because Willelmus’s plight had shown him what happens to those who strain their eyes.’
‘I understand he liked alchemy,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he might have decided to investigate that particular matter himself, in competition with the medici?’
‘He might have done,’ said Etone, silencing Jorz’s immediate denial with a raised hand. ‘But I think he would have told them. He had his failings, but deceit was not one of them.’
‘What failings?’ pounced Michael.
‘Voting in favour of the Common Library,’ said Riborowe immediately. ‘He was the only White Friar to flout our Prior’s instructions. None of the rest of us want such a vile place in our midst.’
‘No,’ agreed Etone. We considered the scheme inadvisable before Dunning provided Newe Inn for the purpose, but we are even more opposed to it now.’
‘That was Northwood’s only fault?’ probed Michael.
Etone sighed. ‘No. If you must know, he was vain about his intellect and impatient with those he deemed inferior.’
‘I never found that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the judgement uncharitable.
‘That is because he admired you, and went to some trouble to cultivate your friendship,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘He thought your mind was worthy of his notice. However, he was considerably less amiable with those who had not won his approbation.’
‘And he was a bully,’ Willelmus muttered, while the novices nodded fervently. ‘He worked the boys very hard, then dismissed their efforts as inadequate.’
‘He often made us stay late,’ added one. ‘And we were afraid that we would grow as blind as Willelmus, because he kept us here long after sunset, when we could barely see.’
‘For the money, it would seem,’ said Michael, ‘which he kept for himself.’
Etone pursed his lips. ‘He was not a thief, Brother. And if you do not believe me, then inspect his cell. You will find no ill-gotten gains there.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael agreeably. ‘Lead on.’
Etone was piqued that Michael was unwilling to take his word about Northwood’s probity, but ordered Riborowe to take the monk and his Corpse Examiner to the dormitory anyway. Sniffing, to indicate his disapproval, the thin priest led the way out of the scriptorium, across the yard, and up a flight of stairs. The dormitory was a large, airy room with flies buzzing around the rafters, and an enormous hearth at each end, to keep the friars warm during inclement weather.
The cubicle that had been occupied by Northwood was about halfway down. There was nothing in it except a bed, a box containing some writings on alchemy, and a spare habit.
‘You see?’ said Riborowe triumphantly. ‘These tales about his greed are lies.’
‘Unless someone guessed that we might inspect his possessions, and made sure all was in order,’ said Michael sombrely. Bartholomew had been thinking the same thing.
‘That is a dreadful charge to lay at our door!’ declared Riborowe indignantly. ‘How dare you!’
Michael was silent for a moment. ‘I have a legal and an ethical obligation to find out what happened to Northwood, and if that means poking into matters that are awkward, distressing or embarrassing, then that is what I must do. I take no pleasure from it, and nor will I gossip about what I learn, but it must be done if the truth is to come out.’
Riborowe softened when he sensed the monk’s sincerity. ‘Very well. Northwood was vain about his intellect, and he was strict with the novices. However, he did not sell exemplars to profit himself – he was not that kind of man. He was your friend, Bartholomew: you
know I am right.’
‘It is true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Northwood was not interested in material wealth, only in expanding his mind and learning more about alchemy.’
‘His fondness for flinging potions together was not a virtue,’ said Riborowe stiffly. ‘It led him into dubious company – such as yours, Bartholomew, and that of the Londons and Vale. I cannot imagine why he sought them out. The brothers were stupid, while Vale was plain nasty. Jorz and I are decent alchemists – look at our experiments with ink – so why could he not have been satisfied with us?’
‘Where did he meet them?’ demanded Michael. ‘And when?’
‘In Weasenham’s shop, in St Mary the Great, talking in Cholles Lane.’ Riborowe shrugged. ‘They were always chatting. The last time I saw all four together was perhaps five days ago. They were laughing, although Northwood declined to share the joke when I asked what was so amusing.’
‘In other words, their society was friendly?’ asked Michael. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew: Vale would not have been guffawing with Northwood if the Carmelite had been blackmailing him.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Riborowe, puzzled. ‘Why would it not be?’
‘There is some suggestion that Northwood discovered Vale had a lover,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘He never mentioned it to me,’ said Riborowe, startled. ‘He was not a gossip.’
Michael indicated that he had finished his search, and Riborowe led them back down the stairs and across the yard to the gate.
‘I am not sure what to think, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘To you, Northwood was a kindly philosopher; to his novices and Willelmus, he was a tyrant; to Weasenham, he was dishonest; to Etone and his fellow friars, he was an eccentric academic; to Rougham, he was a competitor in the race to produce fuel; and to Vale, he was a blackmailer. Which is the real man?’
Bartholomew had no reply, uncomfortable with what they had learned about a person he thought he had known. To avoid addressing the issue, he changed the direction of the discussion.
‘Perhaps Vale concocted this tale about a lover, so that Rougham would not berate him over voting for the Common Library. Rougham keeps a lady himself, so would certainly be sympathetic to the notion of being blackmailed over one.’
‘Yes, but why did Vale vote against his College’s wishes in the first place?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Gonville’s medical books are all very traditional. Perhaps he hoped there would be a wider choice in a Common Library.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yet Northwood was determined that our University should have a central repository for books. He was passionate about it, in fact. And it would not be the first time a scholar did something underhand to get his own way, believing himself to be in the right.’
Again, Bartholomew had no answer.
Once away from the Carmelite Priory, Michael aimed for Newe Inn, to re-examine the place where the four scholars had died. Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling they were wasting their time.
‘Do you have any theories about what happened yet?’ he asked, watching the monk poke the edge of the pond with a stick. ‘Or suspects?’
‘Not really. However, on reflection, I think you are right about Vale: he did lie about having a lover to avoid Rougham’s censure for taking for the wrong side at the Convocation. Of course, the only way to be sure is to ask Ruth.’
‘I doubt she will tell you.’ Bartholomew began to pick some late-flowering lily of the valley. It was useful in remedies for dropsy, and there was so much growing by the pond that he did not think anyone would mind him harvesting a bit. It was past its full glory, but would still do what he wanted. ‘She has nothing to gain by confessing to adultery.’
Michael grimaced. ‘True, but we shall have to make the attempt, anyway. So what have you deduced? And please do not tell me that you believe God is responsible. Or the Devil.’
‘I am fairly sure Northwood, Vale and the Londons were poisoned.’ Bartholomew spread his hands, both full of flowers. ‘I can think of no other reason why they should have died at the same time – and we know they did die at the same time, because Clippesby saw them all alive together on Tuesday night. He told me himself.’
‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘Then who did it? And why?’
‘Not my medical colleagues,’ said Bartholomew immediately, stuffing the flowers into his bag. ‘Perhaps Northwood did recruit friends to help him experiment with lamp fuel after Rougham rejected his offer of help, but none of us would have felt strongly enough about it to kill them.’
Michael gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Not you, perhaps, but the others would! Moreover, if anyone knows how to poison people without leaving evidence, it is a medicus. And just look at the choices: Meryfeld is greedy and ruthless; Rougham is arrogant and vengeful; Gyseburne is enigmatic and inscrutable; and Edith says Holm is greasy.’
‘But none of them are killers,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘However, the notion that all four victims voted for the Common Library disturbs me. Do you think that is why they were killed?’
‘I am inclined to say no, because several hundred scholars from the hostels also supported the scheme, and none of them are dead. Of course, none came from foundations that had ordered them to vote the other way.’
‘Do you think I am in danger, then?’
‘It is possible, so you had better take Cynric with you when you go out at night from now on. He can protect you from men who demand formulae for wildfire, too.’ Michael stopped poking at the pond. ‘Do you think Sawtre was murdered as well – that his “accident” was anything but?’
‘King’s Hall seems happy to blame an unstable piece of furniture, and there is nothing to suggest they are wrong. Of course, there is nothing to say they are right, either.’
Michael tapped his leg with the stick, thinking. ‘What do you think of Browne as a culprit? I know he has friends at King’s Hall, so getting into the place would be easy for him. He found the four bodies, too. Experience tells me to look closely at the fellow who raises the alarm.’
‘Well, he certainly disapproves of the Common Library. Do you think Coslaye helped him?’
‘Possibly. I shall have to interrogate them soon, although it will not be easy when there are no facts to encourage them to confess.’
Bartholomew followed him along the path, back towards the library building. ‘You are due to make your report to Dunning soon. What will you tell him?’
Michael shrugged. ‘The truth: that the four men who died here were almost certainly killed unlawfully, but that we have no idea by whom or why. I hope he does not decide that the information is not worth a meal, because I am hungry.’
They passed the library as they aimed for the gate, which rang with the sounds of industry as usual. Someone was whistling as he worked, a tune that marked time with the rap of a hammer, and apprentices were sweeping sawdust into bags, ready to be sold to farmers.
‘It has just started, Doctor,’ called one lad. He was Alfred de Blaston, a youth whose family had been Bartholomew’s patients for years. ‘If you hurry, you will not have missed much.’
‘What has started?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
‘The tour of the library for future benefactors,’ explained Alfred impatiently. ‘I am sure you will be a donor, because you are very rich.’
‘I am?’ Bartholomew was astonished to hear so.
Alfred nodded. ‘Of course, or you would not have been able to provide my little brother with milksops and free medicine all winter.’
Michael grinned. ‘Now I shall know whom to approach when I need to borrow some money. But I would not mind participating in this tour, and we have enough time before dinner.’
They arrived to find Walkelate standing on the stairs, addressing a group of men and women. There were perhaps thirty of them, and they included Chancellor Tynkell, burgesses from the Guild of Corpus Christi and a number of senio
r scholars. Tynkell was alarmed when he saw Michael, and sidled through the assembly towards him. The Chancellor rarely looked healthy, mostly because of his unfortunate aversion to hygiene, but he seemed especially pallid that day.
‘Please do not make any remarks that will put them off, Brother,’ he begged. ‘It will not be much of a library without books, and that is the purpose of this gathering – to secure donations.’
‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why was I not told about it?’
‘Because I was afraid you would cause trouble,’ explained Tynkell bluntly. ‘A few well-chosen words from you will see these would-be benefactors turn tail and run.’
‘Do you really consider me so petty?’ Michael was indignant.
The Chancellor did not deign to answer.
‘And now, if you will follow me upstairs, I shall show you the library proper,’ announced Walkelate, beaming at the throng and clearly delighted to be showing off his work.
The visitors began to shuffle up the steps, cooing at the carved handrail and the decorative corbels. The hammering and sawing that had been echoing around the garden promptly stopped. Bartholomew, Tynkell and Michael joined the end of the party.
‘It is a remarkable achievement,’ Bartholomew said, looking around appreciatively and noting in particular the lifelike features of Aristotle. ‘The craftsmen have worked wonders.’
‘It is beautiful,’ conceded Michael grudgingly. ‘The hostel men will enjoy coming here, although such splendour is wasted on them. Is that Dunning over there, talking to Weasenham?’
The Chancellor nodded. ‘He is often here, checking on progress, while Weasenham has promised us several very expensive books and a large number of exemplars. They are both vital to the success of this scheme, so please be nice to them, Brother.’
‘I shall be my usual charming self,’ promised Michael, surging forward.
‘That is what I was afraid of,’ said Tynkell worriedly to Bartholomew. ‘So I had better ingratiate myself with the Frevill clan. Several are wealthy, and their kinsman works here, so perhaps they will provide us with books, should Michael’s “charming self” do any damage.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 13
