Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Bartholomew watched him approach several tall, well-built gentlemen, one of whom was the carpenter he had met before. Frevill saw Bartholomew looking at him, and came to talk.

  ‘We cannot really afford to stop work and deal with visitors,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Not if we are to finish in the allotted time. But Walkelate says securing well-wishers is important, so …’

  ‘You look tired,’ said Bartholomew, seeing lines of weariness etched deep into the man’s face.

  ‘So do you,’ countered Frevill, smiling. ‘But I am well, although I worry about Kente. He suffers from dizzy spells, and I am sure it is the long hours he keeps. Will you speak to him?’

  As he followed Frevill into the adjoining room, Bartholomew heard Michael ask Weasenham – loudly – whether he had recovered from his mishap in the paper vat. The question brought a gale of laughter from those who heard it, and Tynkell winced at Weasenham’s furious glare.

  The room containing the libri concatenati stank of the oil that had been used to stain the wood. It was not unpleasant, but it was strong, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Kente was light-headed. The craftsman was sitting atop the cista, treating an exquisitely carved lectern to a liberal smothering of brown grease.

  ‘This will make it shine like burnished gold,’ Kente said, glancing up when Frevill and Bartholomew approached. He was pale, but there was genuine pleasure in his face. ‘I am looking forward to the opening next week.’

  ‘Your paste reeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Frevill says you have not been feeling well.’

  ‘Nothing that a few days’ rest will not cure,’ said Kente, waving his concerns away. ‘And I shall have those next week, once this place is finished. We are very close now.’

  ‘Try to go outside occasionally,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘For fresh air.’

  ‘I do not need fresh air,’ stated Kente scornfully. ‘I have been inhaling this lovely oil all my life, and I like its scent.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after, we shall close this room to keep it pristine while we add the finishing touches to the libri distribuendi next door. That chamber is slightly behind schedule, but nothing we cannot rectify with a bit of hard work.’

  There was little that Bartholomew could do if Kente declined to listen to him. He shrugged to Frevill, and began to wander, smiling when he saw Michael’s chubby features in a carving depicting the feeding of the five thousand. He half listened to the discussions of the benefactors around him, pleased when he heard several begin to compete with each other’s generosity.

  ‘My entire collection of breviaries,’ declared Stanmore to the head of the Frevill clan.

  ‘The complete works of Bradwardine,’ countered Frevill. ‘Religious and philosophical.’

  ‘And I shall donate my bestiary,’ said a quietly spoken scholar from Bene’t College named Rolee.

  ‘You will?’ blurted Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Does your College not have an opinion about that? Bene’t is one of this place’s most fervent opponents.’

  Rolee nodded. ‘I know, and I voted against it myself, as I was ordered. But now I see it, I wish I had given it my support. It is a grand venture, and one that is a credit to our studium generale. When my colleagues see it for themselves, they will think the same.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘And that they are won around soon. Michael said it caused a fight between your College and Essex Hostel last night.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rolee ruefully. ‘But even if they do remain antagonistic, they will not mourn the loss of my bestiary. They consider it a waste of space, and say our shelves would be better graced with tomes on theology or law.’

  Bartholomew browsed a little longer, and was about to leave when he spotted his sister talking to Ruth and Julitta. As he went to pay his respects, a shaft of sunlight pierced the room and bathed Julitta in its golden rays. It turned her eyes to sapphire and her skin to the purest alabaster. When she turned to smile a greeting at him, he found himself gazing at the face of an angel.

  ‘Ruth asked whether you had heard what happened to her husband, Matt,’ said Edith loudly, pinching his arm to gain his attention. He blushed when he realised they had been speaking to him for several moments, but he had not heard a word of it.

  ‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I mean yes.’

  Julitta laughed. ‘Your brother seems discomfited by the presence of so many ladies. University men are not used to us, so perhaps we had better leave him in peace.’

  They had gone before Bartholomew could say he was perfectly happy to be discomfited by her, then was glad she had not given him the chance when he saw Holm nearby. The surgeon was regarding him coolly, and Bartholomew felt his face grow red a second time.

  ‘My sister likes to tease,’ said Ruth. ‘Take no notice of her. Unless you want to, of course.’

  To cover his confusion at the enigmatic remark, Bartholomew blurted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Did you know Vale the physician?’

  ‘You know I did,’ said Ruth, bemused. ‘I told you when you came to our shop earlier today that I was his patient.’

  ‘Someone mentioned … there is a rumour …’ Bartholomew trailed off, heartily wishing he had never started the conversation. It was hardly his responsibility to ask embarrassing questions for Michael’s investigation.

  ‘There was a nasty report, some weeks ago, that he was my lover,’ said Ruth frostily. ‘Is that the subject you have chosen to discuss with me? I assure you, it is quite untrue. There was never any shred of impropriety between Vale and me. I credit myself with more taste.’

  ‘The tale was malicious, then?’ Bartholomew wondered who would do such a thing. Was it someone who had fallen prey to Weasenham’s tattle, and who had decided to strike back?

  Ruth grimaced, then said in a less hostile tone, ‘Or wishful thinking.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You think Vale might have …’

  ‘Imagined it, yes,’ finished Ruth. ‘He liked to think of himself as an Adonis, and once told Bonabes that he could seduce any woman he pleased. However, he certainly did not try to seduce me. He was never anything but polite and proper.’

  Bartholomew began to apologise for raising the matter, loath for her to think badly of him. As he did so, he became aware that he was doing it because he did not want her to tell Julitta about his boorish behaviour, and that it was her younger sister’s good opinion that he really wanted to keep. He started to stumble over his words, disconcerted by what he was learning about himself, and was relieved when Walkelate interrupted by bustling up to them.

  ‘I have just told Brother Michael – again – that I saw and heard nothing unusual on the night that those four men died,’ the architect blurted out, troubled. ‘But he seems reluctant to believe me.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Because he says the pond is a mere stone’s throw from here, and we must have noticed something. But we did not! We were oiling the shelves, which was tedious work, so Holm hired a couple of singers to entertain us while we laboured.’

  ‘Holm did? Why?’

  ‘It was an act of kindness – we are friends,’ replied Walkelate. ‘He is our nearest neighbour, too, and likes to stay on our good side. My artisans and I all joined in the songs – loudly and cheerfully – so we heard nothing amiss.’

  ‘But you must have gone into the garden at some point,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘I imagine you store some of your materials there.’

  ‘We used to, but there is no need now that all the shelves, floors and panels are in place.’

  Bartholomew was frustrated on Michael’s behalf. ‘But four people died here! Surely, you noticed something unusual – the gate ajar, an odd noise, torches in the undergrowth? Holm certainly did, from next door.’

  ‘I wish we had,’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘But we rarely look out of the windows when we are working – our attention is on our hands. And it would not have helped the victims if we ha
d – you cannot see the pond from here. You cannot see the gate, either, so an elephant could have marched into the garden, and we would have known nothing about it.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Ruth, who had been listening to the exchange. ‘The craftsmen are always intent on their work, because they aim to have the bonus my father promised for finishing by next week.’

  ‘What about the apprentices?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Boys will not be so absorbed.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Walkelate. ‘But they have school lessons in the evenings, so they are never here. But ask them anyway. Perhaps they noticed something unusual during the day.’

  Bartholomew did, but his efforts went unrewarded. They worked as hard as their masters, and had no time for fighting their way through the weeds to the fish pond. And as it had a reputation for housing evil sprites, none of them had been inclined to do so anyway.

  ‘I went up there once,’ confided Alfred. ‘When we first started working here, as a dare. I did not see any faeries, but I could feel them watching me, flexing their claws ready to leap out and drag me down into their evil pond. I ran away as fast as I could.’

  ‘You had better get a charm from Cynric if you intend to spend much more time there, Doctor,’ advised another boy, his young face solemn. ‘He will make sure you are properly protected.’

  Bartholomew was sure he would.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Lord! I am hungry,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked to the handsome house owned by Dunning a short while later. ‘I could eat a horse, although I hope they do not give me one.’

  ‘We have made scant progress today,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with their investigation than Michael’s culinary preferences. ‘Over Northwood and the others.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Michael, reluctantly dragging his mind away from food and back to the murders. ‘And there is the fact that my grandmother is in Cambridge.’

  Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘True. Do you have any idea what brought her here?’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘Well, our university boasts a lot of clever minds, ones that have taken to invention enthusiastically since that deputation from Oxford virtually challenged us to compete with them. Perhaps the King sent her here to keep an eye on us.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt we warrant that sort of attention, Brother!’

  ‘Do not be so sure. Some of these discoveries will be worth a fortune, and His Majesty is interested in money. Moreover, there is the attack on you to consider.’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘It occurred because someone believes you know how to make wildfire – another invention.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I do not think an agent of Dame Pelagia’s standing would have been dragged from retirement to spy on a few academics who like to experiment, not even ones who have stumbled across a formula for wildfire. She is here for another reason, although it is entirely possible that we may never learn what it is. She is not exactly forthcoming.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael wryly. ‘However, I think you are wrong. She was in the London brothers’ house when we found her, which makes me suspect that they were dabbling in something rather more sly than making paper, probably in company with Northwood and Vale.’

  ‘Competing with us over lamp fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although we have nothing to prove it. Rougham made the accusation, but he disliked Northwood.’

  ‘Prior Etone said it was possible, too, and I shall certainly bear it in mind as I make my enquiries. Ergo, I am loath to cross your medical colleagues off my list of suspects for the deaths of those four men. As I said earlier, physicians know how to poison people without leaving evidence, so one of them might well have dispatched the competition.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘They would not—’

  ‘Rougham, Gyseburne, Meryfeld and Holm,’ mused Michael, overriding him. ‘None are what I could call pleasant characters. But here we are at Dunning’s house, so we had better discuss this later. I would not like anyone else to know the route our suspicions have taken.’

  He had knocked on Dunning’s door before Bartholomew could inform him that his suspicions had taken him nowhere near the medici. It was opened by Julitta. She was wearing a blue kirtle that matched her eyes, and a gold net, called a fret, covered her glossy hair. When she smiled a welcome, Bartholomew found himself at a loss for words. He was unsettled by the emotions that surged inside him, having experienced nothing like them since he had lost Matilde. Uneasily, he acknowledged that he could very easily become smitten with Julitta.

  ‘I hear you are betrothed, mistress,’ Michael was saying conversationally as he followed her inside, bringing Bartholomew back to Earth with a considerable bump. ‘To Holm the surgeon.’

  Julitta nodded. ‘Yes. We shall be wed within the month.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ blurted Bartholomew, recalling Clippesby’s contention that the union would not be a happy one, along with Holm’s open admission that he was only interested in her father’s money. Julitta regarded him in surprise, and so did Michael.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, bemused. ‘Do you think I do not know my own mind?’

  ‘No … well, yes,’ said Bartholomew, flustered. ‘But Holm … A surgeon is …’

  ‘He is talented, charming, handsome and he loves me,’ said Julitta quietly. ‘And the match pleases my father. I am more than content with the arrangement.’

  Bartholomew was tempted to inform her of what Holm had said, but he had the distinct feeling that she would not believe him, and it was not in his nature to tell tales anyway. He followed her along a narrow corridor to a room overlooking a pleasant garden. The window shutters had been thrown open, and the air that wafted inside was rich with the scent of flowers and herbs.

  Michael need not have worried about going hungry, because the food was good and plentiful. There were roasted chickens, salted pork, wheaten bread, vegetables braised in butter, pea pottage and a raisin tart. Bartholomew’s stomach had not recovered from its bout with sickness the previous night, so he ate and drank sparingly. Michael, by contrast, ate and drank everything that was set near him as he summarised Bartholomew’s findings about the four dead scholars, and so did Dunning, who became garrulous as the evening wore on.

  ‘I am a member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, so it is only right that the Common Library I enabled should open on our Feast Day,’ he declared. ‘It is a fitting tribute to my generosity.’

  ‘Really, Father,’ murmured Julitta. ‘A little humility would—’

  ‘And I have been generous,’ Dunning brayed on. ‘Everyone else donates scrolls, altar cloths or relics, but my gift will go down in the annals of history as unique. I shall make sure you are remembered in perpetuity, too, Julitta, given that you were the one who encouraged me to do it.’

  Bartholomew smiled at her, surprised and impressed that she should have done something so munificent. Julitta merely stared at the table, apparently mortified by her father’s bragging conceit.

  ‘Tell us about the arrangements for the Corpus Christi pageant,’ suggested Michael, reaching for the wine jug and tactfully changing the subject. ‘Will it be as spectacular as last year?’

  Dunning beamed delightedly. ‘I think it will, because it will culminate in the opening of my library. The procession will be led by Frevill, who will wear a fancy cloak. The rest of the Guild will follow, along with the town’s priests, various University dignitaries – including that peculiar Chancellor Tynkell – and the burgesses.’

  ‘Why do you say Tynkell is peculiar?’ asked Michael curiously.

  Dunning lowered his voice. ‘Well, there was a rumour not long ago that he was pregnant.’

  ‘That was a silly story put about by one of my students, as a joke,’ explained Bartholomew. It had actually been started by Deynman, who had believed it.

  ‘Yet there is something odd about the fellow,’ said Dunning. ‘Do you know what it is, Doctor?’r />
  ‘He does, but he refuses to tell,’ said Michael. ‘It is very annoying, because I work closely with Tynkell, and would dearly like to know what makes him … different.’

  ‘It is a pity that those four scholars died in Newe Inn’s garden,’ said Dunning, leaping to another subject with the convoluted logic of the drunk. ‘It was remiss of them, so close to the opening.’

  ‘It is an odd case,’ mused Michael, while Bartholomew regarded Dunning in distaste, feeling the remark was extraordinarily insensitive. ‘As I said during my summary just now, Matt can find no apparent cause of death.’

  ‘They were not men I would have imagined enjoying each other’s company,’ confided Dunning. ‘I liked Northwood and the London brothers, who praised me effusively for founding a Common Library, but I did not take to Vale. He was arrogant.’

  ‘Confident might be a kinder word,’ said Julitta. ‘He—’

  ‘I dislike medical men, on the whole,’ declared Dunning. He winced and bent down to rub his ankle – Julitta had kicked him under the table – then regarded Bartholomew sheepishly. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

  ‘Yet you will allow your daughter to marry one,’ observed Michael.

  ‘Holm is a surgeon, which makes it all right,’ explained Dunning. ‘You can see what surgeons are doing, even if it is all rather bloody, whereas physicians only inspect urine or pretend to work out what is wrong by devising horoscopes. I know physicians are generally regarded as superior, but I prefer surgeons, because they cut hair, which is actually useful.’

  ‘Will Holm be giving you a trim for Corpus Christi?’ said Michael, struggling not to smile.

  ‘Me and the entire Guild,’ boasted Dunning. ‘We shall all look very well groomed.’

  When servants came to clear the table, Dunning invited his guests to an elegant solar on the upper floor, to inspect his books. They could not help but be impressed, because his collection included theological and philosophical works, as well as tomes on law, astronomy and music.

  ‘Have you read all these?’ Bartholomew asked, running an appreciative finger along the bindings.