Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Thank you,’ said Walkelate gratefully, handing over the coins, although Bartholomew thought the price rather high. ‘I shall fetch a bowl.’

  Holm raised his hands in a shrug when the architect had gone, as if he felt the need to explain his friendship. ‘He was kind to me when I first arrived, so I decided to continue the association. He ranks quite highly at King’s Hall, and I am always happy to maintain good relations with those who might be useful to me one day. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking into the death of your colleague Vale and his friends,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I do not suppose you noticed anything amiss, did you, from your home next door?’

  ‘Only the lights, which I have already mentioned to Bartholomew,’ replied Holm. ‘And I would tell you if I had seen anything else, because I shall play a prominent role in this library’s opening, and I have no intention of being deprived of an opportunity to shine.’

  ‘Walkelate tells us that you hired singers that night,’ said Michael. ‘To entertain the craftsmen.’

  Holm nodded. ‘They were oiling shelves, which is painstakingly dull, so I took pity on them. However, I wished I had not – they joined in the songs and the caterwauling was dreadful. I could hear them from my house, and was obliged to close the windows in the end.’

  Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Why had the surgeon so suddenly decided to treat Walkelate’s exhausted workforce? Did he have another reason for his uncharacteristic kindness – such as drowning out anything that might have been happening in the garden?

  ‘Do you ever visit the pond?’ he asked, watching Holm intently.

  But he was wasting his time; he could read nothing in the bland features except a mild surprise at the question. ‘No, of course not. I understand it is full of evil sprites.’

  ‘Then did you ever see Vale, Northwood or the London brothers there?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I have better things to do than gaze into overgrown gardens. I only noticed those lights because I happened to leave a book on my windowsill, and I saw them when I went to move it.’ Holm’s expression turned salacious. ‘Have you heard the rumour that Vale and Ruth were once lovers?’

  Bartholomew struggled to mask his dislike of the man, and wondered how Julitta, who seemed sensible, could be deceived by the oily charm he oozed when he was with her. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But I do not believe it can be true. Ruth is a decent lady.’

  ‘You are half right,’ said Holm, with a nasty smile. ‘It is not true. And the reason is because Ruth’s heart belongs to Bonabes, and Bonabes’s to her. Which explains why a man of the Exemplarius’s abilities and intelligence continues to labour for the ghastly Weasenham.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Michael, although the claim came as a surprise to Bartholomew, who was not very observant about such matters. ‘Bonabes is never far from Ruth, and I have seen the secret looks they exchange. They should take more care, because Weasenham is vindictive.’

  ‘And he has poisonous substances to hand,’ added Holm darkly. ‘Ones for making paper.’

  ‘Here,’ said Walkelate, returning with a basin. He tipped Holm’s concoction into it, and set it on a shelf. Bartholomew inspected it and saw that the mixture comprised mostly bits of stem, which would do little to combat noxious smells. Holm had cheated the man he claimed was a friend.

  ‘We were lucky not to have been slaughtered in our beds yesterday, because Tulyet proved woefully inadequate at defending us,’ said Holm conversationally. ‘I am going to complain to the King about him. Now I live in this town, it must be properly guarded.’

  ‘I doubt you were in danger,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘I suspect the raiders were local men who wanted the tax money, and they will know better than to harm the town’s only surgeon.’

  ‘That cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet would have noticed any Cambridge resident assembling a private army—’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ interrupted Walkelate. ‘The raiders headed straight for the Great Tower. In other words, they knew exactly where to go, which outsiders would not have done. Tulyet is scouring the marshes for the culprits, but he should be looking in the town.’

  ‘You mean scholars?’ asked Michael uncomfortably. ‘It was not Principal Coslaye, if that is the rumour you have heard. He has an alibi for the time of the attack.’

  ‘Coslaye?’ asked Walkelate, taken aback. ‘He is not the kind of man to take part in armed scuffles!’

  ‘Oh, yes, he is,’ countered Holm, all malice. ‘He is a hot-tempered warmonger, who—’

  ‘He was with the Carmelites during the invasion,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I assure you, no scholars were involved in that terrible business.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Holm blandly, making no effort to look convinced.

  There was no evidence of bells in Newe Inn or its garden, and when they had finished searching, Bartholomew said he needed to visit the castle, to check on his patients. Michael accompanied him, as he wanted to speak to Agatha’s nephew about Coslaye.

  ‘It is the sort of task I should have been able to delegate to a Junior Proctor,’ he grumbled, as they walked. ‘But none of our lazy colleagues sees fit to help me.’

  ‘Holm lives very close to the place where Vale and the others died,’ Bartholomew remarked, declining to address the fact that no sane scholar would want to be Michael’s minion. ‘And as you have pointed out, all medici have a working knowledge of poisons.’

  ‘You want him accused because you do not like him,’ said Michael astutely. He shrugged at Bartholomew’s sheepish smile. ‘I do not blame you: he is a vile individual. So is Coslaye, come to that, yet here I am, racing to prove his innocence. Perhaps we should let the tale run its course, because I do not want bigots like Coslaye in my University.’

  ‘We are not “racing” to save him, we are doing it to prevent the town from accusing scholars of assaulting the castle – a rumour that may end in a riot.’

  ‘True,’ conceded Michael with a sigh. ‘I am not sure what to make of his claim of hearing a bell, though. Perhaps Browne is right: Coslaye just hears things these days.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘The hooded man you chased out of Newe Inn’s garden last night was looking for something. Why not a bell?’

  Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘What would anyone want with a bell?’

  ‘Perhaps Meadowman will be able to tell you if he finds one during his dredging. Look! There is Dunning again, with Ruth and Bonabes. Julitta is not with them, so I wonder if she is still at the castle.’ He hoped so. It would be pleasant to see her again.

  Michael glanced sideways at him. ‘You seem rather taken with her. Does Holm have a rival for her affections? Is that why you are so eager for him to be our murderous villain?’

  To his horror, Bartholomew felt himself blushing. ‘No, of course not! Besides, love is not for me, not after Matilde. In fact, I am giving serious consideration to joining a religious Order.’

  ‘I would not recommend that,’ said Michael, somewhat unexpectedly, for he was usually keen to snare his friend for the Benedictines. ‘You might be used to poverty, but the obedience would be a problem. So would the chastity. Besides, you could do a lot worse than Julitta. She is made of much finer stuff than that pitiful widow you have been visiting.’

  ‘You know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, both surprised and chagrined.

  ‘Nothing escapes the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael smugly. ‘And you should pursue Julitta, because Holm will not make her happy. Even Clippesby says so, and he is hardly an astute observer of human nature.’

  Confused and more than a little embarrassed, Bartholomew changed the subject. ‘So you think Holm is right when he says that Ruth has given her heart to Bonabes?’

  He glanced to where Weasenham’s wife and Exemplarius were walking side by side. Bonabes was carrying a heavy parcel, and it slipped at that moment. Ruth darted forward to help him, after which they exchanged a glance of such smould
ering passion that Bartholomew was dumbfounded.

  ‘I think we can assume he is,’ remarked Michael dryly.

  ‘Edith’s seamstresses worked all night to repair Frevill’s lye-burned cope,’ said Dunning, indicating the package as their paths converged. ‘We are just taking it back to him.’

  ‘It is better now than it was before,’ said Bonabes, setting the burden down and wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘Although Master Weasenham will face a hefty bill, I fear.’

  ‘It will not kill him,’ said Ruth. She exchanged an unfathomable glance with Bonabes, then smiled at Bartholomew. ‘Julitta is still nursing the wounded men. She refuses to leave them.’

  ‘I told her there are more pleasant ways to spend the day,’ added Dunning. ‘But she said she must inure herself to such sights for when she is married to Holm.’

  ‘Holm!’ muttered Ruth in disgust. ‘I wish she was betrothed to someone nicer.’

  ‘She assures me that he is everything she has ever wanted,’ said Dunning. ‘Not that she has much choice in the matter, of course. I want my family affiliated with his, because he is related to the Holms of Norfolk. But never mind that. Weasenham told me today that someone is going around dispatching scholars who voted for my library. Is it true?’

  ‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Sawtre’s death was an accident, and it is coincidence that the four men who died in Newe Inn’s garden happened to support the scheme.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Dunning worriedly. ‘Because I did not donate a house so that people could be murdered over it.’

  The sun was shining brightly by the time Michael and Bartholomew reached the castle, the mist and cloud having burned away. Bartholomew could hear sheep bleating in the fields outside the town gates, and the scent of recently milked cows was in the air. It was yet another pretty day.

  The castle was still in a state of high alert. Bowmen stood at every arrow slit, and two mounted knights were stationed by the Gatehouse, ready to charge at the slightest threat. Meanwhile, the soldiers who loitered in the bailey were tense, wary and wore full armour.

  All the casualties in the ‘infirmary’ were doing better than Bartholomew had dared hope, and he suspected it was because of Julitta, who moved among them with cups of water – which she assured him had been boiled – and encouraging words. He said so, and she smiled in a way that made his heart lurch. Flustered, he joined Michael at Robin’s bedside.

  ‘Yes, my Aunt Agatha came to see me,’ Robin was saying. ‘She told me not to tell anyone that it was Coslaye of Batayl Hostel who was among the invaders.’

  ‘It was not Coslaye,’ stated Michael. ‘He was at the Carmelite Priory when the attack took place, squabbling with the friars about soot being thrown over his mural of Poitiers.’

  Robin looked doubtful. ‘But I saw him, Brother. He was wearing armour and a helmet, admittedly, so he looked different, but I am sure it was him.’

  ‘You were mistaken,’ said Michael firmly. ‘It was someone who looked like him.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose.’ Robin sighed. ‘But Aunt Agatha has ordered me to keep it quiet, and I value my life too much to cross her. I shall not discuss it with anyone else, do not worry.’

  His eyes began to close, so they left him to rest. Bartholomew tended the other patients, rather disappointed to learn that none of his colleagues had been to visit. Unimpressed, he saw they had abrogated the entire responsibility to him, almost certainly because there would be no payment.

  He set about changing dressings and checking wounds for signs of infection, pleased when Julitta offered to help. She had deft, gentle hands, and learned quickly what needed to be done. It was late afternoon by the time they had finished, and he lingered over Robin for no other reason than that he was enjoying Julitta’s company and was reluctant for it to end.

  ‘My reading lessons with you will have to be postponed,’ she said softly, nodding towards the patients. ‘It seems we both have more important things to do now.’

  ‘I could find the time,’ said Bartholomew quickly.

  She touched his arm and his stomach did somersaults. ‘You are kind, but the wounded must come first. And now I must leave, because I promised to help my father with the finery he is to wear to the Corpus Christi celebrations on Thursday.’

  Bartholomew watched her go, noting the way the sun caught her hair as she passed a window.

  ‘It is a pity she is promised to Holm,’ said Robin, also watching. ‘She is wasted on him.’

  Bartholomew was grateful when Gyseburne arrived, relieved to be thinking about medicine and not the complex gamut of emotions that seethed within him. His colleague did not want to listen to a detailed report of each patient’s progress, however, and interrupted with an observation.

  ‘Boiling the dressings we applied to these open wounds does seem to have reduced infection, although I cannot imagine why. However, as my dear old mother always says, heat and Hell go together, so I can only assume that Satan is somehow involved.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, shocked.

  ‘You think God likes cooked bandages, then?’ asked Gyseburne keenly. ‘And prefers to lay His holy hands on them, rather than ones torn straight from old clothes or bedding?’

  ‘I do not know.’ Bartholomew was never happy when theology entered medicine.

  ‘Well, there must be some explanation for why your technique works,’ insisted Gyseburne. ‘There is a reason for everything – even for yesterday’s attack.’

  ‘Yes, and Tulyet will find it,’ said Bartholomew, thankful to be on less contentious ground.

  ‘Possibly, but you should ask Ayera first.’ Gyseburne lowered his voice. ‘I am going to tell you something because I trust you, but you can never reveal to Ayera that it came from me. Do I have your word?’

  Bartholomew nodded warily, sensing he was about to be told something he would not like.

  Gyseburne took a deep breath. ‘He was among the raiders yesterday. There! It is out, and now it is your responsibility to make sure the relevant authorities hear about it. I am absolved.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘He was not! He is a geometrician!’

  ‘He was a soldier before he came to Cambridge. A very fine one. I know, because I practised medicine in York before I came here, and that is his home city, where he was involved in several questionable incidents. Indeed, there was one that touched your Master Langelee – he had been entertaining, and summoned me when all his guests fell ill. They had been poisoned.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Langelee told me the tale when we went to York a few weeks ago, and Ayera mentioned it, too.’

  ‘Did Ayera also tell you that the cook who provided the soup was in his family’s employ? Of course, he claimed it was a mistake anyone might make, but I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Then they are wrong,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Ayera would have had no reason to harm Langelee’s visitors.’

  ‘On the contrary, the stricken men were enemies of his powerful uncle – the one who died recently but who transpired to be penniless. There was no evidence to prove anything, of course, but the entire episode stank. But regardless of this, I know what I saw yesterday.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew, both bewildered and unsettled by the claims.

  ‘Not long after dawn, I was returning home from seeing a patient in Girton – which is why I was late arriving to help you with the wounded – when I saw armed men racing away from the town at a tremendous speed. Ayera was among them. I hid, so he did not see me.’

  ‘Then it is your duty to tell the Sheriff. He will find there is an innocent explanation for—’

  ‘Yes, there might be,’ interrupted Gyseburne. ‘Although I cannot imagine what. However, I am not telling Tulyet anything. Ayera may seem courteous and refined, but there is murder in that man. I shall not cross him, and if you ever tell anyone that you heard this tale from me, I shall deny it. He is your colleague, so the matter is in your h
ands now.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew, wishing Gyseburne had not burdened him with his unpleasant observations. He liked Ayera, and did not want to hear nasty tales about him.

  ‘And there is something else,’ Gyseburne went on. ‘I met Rougham on my way here, and he has spent a lot of time with the Carmelite scribe who had the seizure. Apparently, Willelmus fainted from fright, because of what he saw.’

  ‘What did he see?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

  ‘He would not say. However, I cannot help but wonder whether what terrified Willelmus was seeing a prominent scholar – namely Ayera – among the villains who attacked our town.’

  Bartholomew said nothing, but suddenly the day did not seem quite so bright and pretty.

  He was about to leave the castle when the rest of his medical colleagues arrived – not to visit the wounded, but to debate the lucrative business of being on-call for the Corpus Christi pageant. As they approached, he heard Meryfeld confiding to Holm and Rougham, with a mind-boggling lack of remorse, how he often misled patients about the contents of the cures he sold.

  ‘Poppy juice is expensive,’ he was saying. ‘So why use it, when most folk are incapable of telling the difference? The tincture I call Poppy Water contains nothing but nettles and mint.’

  ‘And your clients never suspect?’ asked Holm, keenly interested.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld scornfully. ‘They trust me, and believe anything I say.’

  ‘I would never dare do anything like that,’ said Rougham. Bartholomew was not sure whether Rougham was favourably impressed by Meryfeld’s dishonesty and itched to emulate it, or whether he was disapproving. ‘Most of my customers are scholars, and they tend not to be stupid.’

  ‘Some of them are,’ averred Meryfeld with a grin. ‘Especially the rich ones at King’s Hall.’

  The conversation came to an abrupt end when they became aware that Bartholomew and Gyseburne were listening, and they hastened to present their plan for the pageant instead. They had decided that the town was to be divided into sectors, and each medicus was to have one, except Bartholomew who, it was anticipated, would still be too busy with his battle-wounded.