Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It was a close thing, though,’ said Michael. ‘The villains had reached the foot of the Great Tower before Dick Tulyet’s archers were able to drive them off.’

  ‘Do you really think they wanted the taxes?’ Bartholomew asked, when Lister had gone.

  Michael stared at him. ‘Of course! Why else would they tackle a castle? It is not as if they were part of an invading army, and needed to secure a fortress in order to control a region.’

  ‘The place contains a lot more than money. There are horses, weapons, all manner of documents and deeds. There are also prisoners in the gaol, and—’

  ‘Then I am glad the mystery is not mine to unravel. My hands are full enough already.’

  After mopping up the last of the grease with a piece of bread, Michael led the way out of the Brazen George. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively as they walked, again admiring the work that had been done to make the town pretty for Corpus Christi. The High Street looked especially picturesque, with its brightly painted houses and neat shops. The churchyards had been tidied, too – brambles and nettles trimmed back, and grass scythed.

  Michael insisted on stopping at St Mary the Great as they passed, to see whether Beadle Meadowman had left him a progress report about dredging Newe Inn’s pond. The Trinity Sunday service was still in progress, and Bartholomew smiled when he heard the sweet, pure notes of the choir. The church was full of fragrant white flowers, which would be kept until Wednesday evening, when a lot of red ones would be added for Corpus Christi.

  They had not been in Michael’s expensively furnished office for long – Bartholomew admiring Walkelate’s sketches of the finished library, and the monk rummaging through mounds of documents in search of a message from his beadle – when there was a cough. It was the Chancellor.

  ‘Come in, Tynkell,’ said Michael, without looking up. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Have you solved the Newe Inn deaths yet?’ asked Tynkell. He seemed bolder than usual, and Bartholomew wondered whether it was because he was wearing his robes of office, which conferred on him a confidence he did not normally possess. ‘The Common Library will open its doors to readers in four days, and I do not want unexplained demises hanging over the occasion.’

  ‘I am working as fast as I can,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘Unfortunately, I have been busy quelling spats among our scholars over your damned project – the most recent being last night, when Berwicke Hostel squabbled with King’s Hall. Moreover, there has not been much in the way of clues about what happened to those four men.’

  ‘Then you must find some, Brother.’ Tynkell seemed unsteady on his feet. ‘I want the opening ceremony to pass off without a hitch, and I shall hold you responsible if something spoils it.’

  ‘What?’ exploded Michael incredulously. ‘How dare you—’

  ‘You have a duty to prevent trouble,’ Tynkell went on, wagging his finger. ‘And there will be trouble, unless whoever killed those scholars is caught. So, who are your suspects?’

  ‘I shall tell you when I am good and ready,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am doing my best, so do not order me to work harder. I told you a Common Library was a bad idea, and I was right. You did not listen, because you are desperate to be recorded as the Chancellor who gave Cambridge what Oxford has had for years. But the whole business is a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Tynkell. ‘Besides, how else will I get to study Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica?’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘Why would you want to read that? It is about warfare.’

  ‘I happen to be very interested in siege engines and artillery,’ replied Tynkell, staggering when he tried to lean on the door frame and missed. ‘Even Northwood, Langelee and Riborowe were amazed at the depth of my knowledge, and none of them is easily impressed.’

  ‘Tulyet said you helped him to design a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Are you sure it is appropriate for scholars to meddle in such matters?’

  ‘Of course, it is. Who else is going to do it? We are the ones with the clever minds.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

  ‘I may have had a cup or two,’ replied Tynkell airily. ‘It is not a habit I usually indulge first thing in the morning, but today is Trinity Sunday, so I made an exception. Perhaps I should do it more often, because I feel like a new man. Indeed, I might even exercise my authority as Chancellor and make a decision about something.’

  ‘The last time you did that, we ended up having to call a Convocation of Regents,’ said Michael with considerable irritation. ‘And our studium generale has not rested easy since. There are even rumours that Northwood, the London brothers, Vale and even Sawtre may have been killed because of the way they voted. So leave the decisions to those of us who know what we are doing, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Then you had better make an arrest fast,’ slurred Tynkell. ‘Because catching this villain may be the only way to prevent more trouble.’

  ‘I know it, believe me,’ said Michael tightly.

  Tynkell grinned. ‘I must be drunk, because I do not usually order you about. However, it feels very satisfying. I shall almost certainly do it again.’

  ‘I would not recommend it,’ said Michael, rather dangerously. ‘So please ensure you are sober when we next meet.’

  ‘He is right, though,’ said Bartholomew, after Tynkell had lurched away. ‘Solving the Newe Inn deaths might well prevent trouble, and you should try to have a culprit before Corpus Christi. That gives you four days.’

  ‘Gives us four days,’ corrected Michael. He scowled. ‘Perhaps it is as well that Tynkell is retiring next year. He has no right to tell me what to do. Who does he think he is?’

  ‘The University’s Chancellor, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

  When Bartholomew and Michael arrived at Batayl Hostel, Coslaye was sitting by the hearth with a book open on his knees, Browne was leaning against the wall behind him, and the students were crowded on to benches. All seemed to have recovered from their bout of illness, although several remained pale.

  ‘We are reading Acton’s Questio Disputata,’ said Coslaye, lifting it so Bartholomew and Michael could see. ‘So far, it is a lot of twaddle.’

  ‘It is the book that almost deprived us of our Principal,’ elaborated Pepin in his perfect French.

  ‘I think we should have sold it, personally,’ said Browne. ‘Because times are hard, and—’

  ‘Never! This particular tome serves to remind everyone that God saw fit to spare me,’ interrupted Coslaye. He tossed it on to the table next to him, where it made a substantial thud. Its wooden covers rendered it weighty, and explained why it had done so much damage to his head. One corner had snapped off, indicating that it had also suffered from the encounter with bone. ‘No, do not lean against that wall, Brother! It may damage my mural. Come to the front.’

  Conditions were very cramped for teaching, and Bartholomew was not surprised that the Batayl men had entertained high hopes of moving to Newe Inn – it was not easy to pick his way through the students without treading on any. Michael took no such care, though, and Pepin was one of several who staggered as the monk’s bulk travelled past them.

  ‘Have you come to tell us who tried to kill me?’ asked Coslaye. ‘I know you have been busy of late, but I should not like to think the attempt on my life has been forgotten.’

  ‘It has not,’ Michael assured him. ‘I promised you I would find the culprit, and I shall.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Coslaye turned to Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham tells me that when you fought at Poitiers, you killed fifty Frenchmen with a spell that blasted them clean out of their armour. What a fabulous achievement! Will you tell us more?’

  Bartholomew was horrified. ‘No! I have never—’

  ‘It seems that Poitiers was full of Cambridge scholars that day,’ interrupted Browne with rank disapproval. ‘Bartholomew, Holm, the villainous Riborowe – who says it is what precipit
ated his interest in ribauldequins. And now Weasenham tells me that Northwood was there, too.’

  ‘I wish I had been,’ said Coslaye wistfully. ‘You really must tell us your experiences on the field, Bartholomew. I guarantee you will find us an enraptured audience.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Men died horribly there, and—’

  ‘But most of them were French,’ stated Coslaye. ‘So who cares? Poitiers was a great day for our country, and I named this hostel after it. Batayl refers to the Battle of Poitiers.’

  Pepin flushed with anger, and it was clear that he held his tongue with difficulty; Bartholomew wondered why he did not transfer to another hostel. Browne rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, although Coslaye did not seem to notice the effect his words were having.

  ‘We were called St Remegius’s Hostel,’ Browne said. The bitter tone of his voice indicated that this was a matter that still rankled with him. ‘But St Remegius was French, and Coslaye said that was unpatriotic, so he changed it. I did not approve, personally, and—’

  ‘Well, Bartholomew?’ demanded Coslaye, rudely overriding him. ‘Will you talk to us?’

  ‘Ask Cynric instead,’ suggested Michael tactfully. ‘He is an excellent storyteller, and more willing to glorify slaughter and bloody death than Matt.’

  ‘Tell him to come around tonight, then,’ said Coslaye keenly.

  ‘No,’ said Browne, while Pepin looked appalled. ‘I do not want to hear—’

  ‘Too bad,’ said Coslaye. ‘Because I do, and I am Principal here. Incidentally, did you hear what happened on Friday night? A Carmelite novice burst in here and threw soot at my painting. I was so incensed that I rose before dawn the following day, and tackled Prior Etone about it.’

  ‘You were in the Carmelite Friary when the raid took place?’ asked Michael, exchanging a quick glance with Bartholomew. ‘You were nowhere near the castle?’

  ‘Why would I be at the castle?’ asked Coslaye, frowning his puzzlement. ‘The Sheriff will not want scholars in his domain, I am sure.’

  ‘We came to discuss the bodies in Newe Inn’s pond again,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Coslaye was not the kind of man to take Robin’s accusation with equanimity, so it was better he did not hear about it. ‘As Batayl lies so close, we wondered whether any of you heard or saw anything odd.’

  ‘No, as we have told you countless times already,’ said Browne irritably. ‘However, we understand that those four men died on Tuesday night, and we were all out then.’

  ‘Out where?’ asked Michael.

  ‘At King’s Hall,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Where there was a gathering of people opposed to the Common Library.’

  ‘Everyone here went?’ pressed Michael.

  Browne nodded. ‘Yes. We are all eager to see the grace overturned.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it will not be,’ said Michael sourly. ‘I do not approve of it, either, but a vote has been taken and we are stuck with the result. It is a pity, but that is democracy for you.’

  ‘Then democracy is a stupid system,’ averred Coslaye. He scowled at Bartholomew. ‘It is a good thing that you saved my life, because we all know which way you voted and I would have punched you for it by now, if I did not owe you some consideration.’

  ‘The four men who died in the pond voted in favour of the library, too,’ fished Michael.

  ‘So did Sawtre,’ said Browne. ‘It strikes me that libraries are dangerous places, and that we should all stay well away from them. Especially from that evil abomination next door.’

  ‘I understand Northwood supporting a Common Library,’ mused Coslaye. ‘He was a Carmelite, and therefore naturally sly. And Vale was not overly endowed with wits, so he probably voted the wrong way by mistake. But the London brothers should have known better.’

  ‘They were members of Batayl,’ Pepin reminded the visitors. ‘So they should have opposed the scheme that saw us deprived of the house Dunning promised we should have.’

  ‘And he did promise,’ added Browne. ‘No matter what he says now.’

  ‘They lived in a lovely cottage on the High Street,’ said Coslaye bitterly. ‘Because Weasenham paid them a decent wage, and they could afford it. But the rest of us were not so fortunate.’

  ‘Let us return to this meeting you attended on Tuesday,’ said Michael. ‘What time did it end?’

  ‘Dusk,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Then we came home and went to bed. Yet I did hear one odd thing during the night …’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Browne. ‘That surprises me. You have slept like a baby ever since Bartholomew sawed open your head.’

  ‘I woke,’ snapped Coslaye crossly. ‘And I heard a bell.’

  ‘A bell?’ echoed Michael. ‘You mean from a church? For vespers or compline?’

  ‘No, it was too late for either, and it was too high-pitched to have been a bell from a church, anyway. It was a small bell. And it definitely came from Newe Inn’s garden.’

  Michael asked a few more questions, but the scholars of Batayl were an incurious, unobservant crowd, and had nothing else to add. Browne opened the door for them when they left, then stepped outside, lowering his voice so he would not be heard by his Principal.

  ‘Do not put too much faith in this bell, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Bartholomew should never have performed his evil surgery, because Coslaye has not been right since, and often claims to hear things the rest of us do not. Do not let his “testimony” lead you astray.’

  CHAPTER 7

  When they left Batayl, Michael insisted on visiting Newe Inn, to ask whether anyone there had heard a bell on the night Northwood and his friends had died. As usual, it was alive with the sounds of sawing and hammering, and apprentices tore up and down the stairs, yelling urgently to each other. The reek of wood oil was stronger than it had been the last time they had visited – the bust of Aristotle had been drenched in it and had been left outside to dry in the sun.

  They walked up to the libri distribuendi, where Bartholomew admired the room’s understated opulence yet again. It felt like a place of learning – venerable, solid and sober. Kente came to greet them, his face grey and lined with exhaustion.

  ‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, regarding him with concern. ‘You will make yourself ill if you drive yourself so hard.’

  Kente managed to smile. ‘It is only for another four days, and the bonus for finishing on time will more than compensate me for any discomfort. I am not the only one who is tired, anyway – Walkelate and Frevill have worked just as hard, if not harder.’

  ‘They have,’ agreed Michael, looking around. ‘Although I still fail to understand why Walkelate accepted this project in the first place, given his College’s antipathy towards it.’

  ‘Antipathy!’ snorted Kente. ‘Downright hostile opposition would be a more accurate description. And he accepted because it is right. He is an ethical man – a little eccentric perhaps, and given to funny ideas, but so are all scholars, so we should not hold it against him.’

  ‘What sort of funny ideas?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Kente sniffed. ‘None as strange as yours, Doctor, with your hand-washing and affection for boiled water. His include things like making metal brackets for the bookshelves. We were skidding about on iron filings for days before I managed to convince him that wooden ones are better.’

  ‘I know we have asked before, but do you have any theories about the four scholars who died not a stone’s throw from here?’ enquired Michael hopefully.

  ‘Of course. It has come to light that they were using the garden for sly experiments – trying to make lamp fuel before the men who had the idea in the first place – and the Devil likes those kind of sinners. He came and took them.’

  ‘Other people say it was God,’ remarked Michael.

  Kente shrugged. ‘Well, neither will appreciate you probing their business, so I should let the matter drop if I were you. But you are not here to chat to me. Come, I will take you to Walkelate.’

  Ba
rtholomew and Michael followed him into the room containing the libri concatenati, where Walkelate was in conference with Frevill and Dunning. The King’s Hall architect looked tired, and so did Frevill, although neither seemed to be teetering on the edge of collapse like Kente.

  ‘I am alarmed by the amount of work still to be done,’ Dunning was saying. ‘Are you sure all will be ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ the architect replied firmly. ‘Just one more polish, and we shall seal the door to this room until the grand opening on Thursday.’

  ‘And we have almost finished the shelves for the libri distribuendi, too,’ added Frevill. ‘We may have to labour frantically to see them absolutely perfect. But perfect they will be.’

  ‘They will,’ agreed Walkelate. He rested his hand on Frevill’s shoulder, and beamed at Kente. ‘I could not have hoped for better craftsmen. Working with you has been a privilege.’

  The sincerity of his words seemed to give Kente new energy and he drew himself up to his full height. ‘Come, Frevill. Let us see whether Aristotle is dry.’

  The craftsmen left, and Dunning went with them, muttering about some aspect of the bust that was not to his liking.

  ‘How may I help you, Brother?’ asked Walkelate, beginning to make notes on a scrap of parchment using the cista as a table. ‘Ah! Good day, Holm. How are you?’

  Bartholomew turned to see the surgeon behind him, holding a large packet. Walkelate leapt to his feet and seized it eagerly.

  ‘Is this it?’ he demanded, eyes full of keen anticipation.

  ‘It is, and I made it myself,’ replied Holm, oozing smug confidence. ‘Out of rose petals and lily of the valley. And I added cinnamon and nutmeg, too, for good measure.’

  ‘It is to mask the stench of Kente’s wood oil,’ Walkelate explained excitedly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Holm assures me that it will have eliminated all unwanted odours by Thursday.’

  ‘I use it when wounds turn bad, and it always works,’ smiled the surgeon. ‘You are a friend, Walkelate, so I shall not charge you for my labour. A shilling will cover the cost of the ingredients.’