‘That Coslaye was hit from behind with something heavy. And that the damage to his foot is several days older.’
‘Did he know his killer? Or is this the work of a stranger?’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How am I supposed to deduce that?’
‘By the way the body landed?’ suggested Michael. ‘Or the position of the wound? You have drawn such conclusions before, so do not look at me as though I am short of wits.’
‘He is on his front, so he may have been running from a stranger when he was struck. Of course, he could equally well have been trying to escape from a murderous friend. Alternatively, his body could have been moved after he died, to make us think he was fleeing from someone.’
‘That is hardly helpful,’ said Michael reproachfully. ‘Let us discuss his foot, then. What do you make of that?’
‘It looks as though the damage was caused by a pointed implement that struck it with some force, but that was prevented from breaking the skin by his hard-leather shoe.’
‘Did you ever notice Coslaye limping? If we can ascertain when he came by this injury, we may be able to work out how it happened.’
Bartholomew thought hard. ‘I was attacked on Wednesday night, and we met Coslaye the next day when he was quarrelling with the Carmelites, but I do not recall whether he hobbled or not. The next time I saw him, he was lying down – he was ill from bad food. And the time after that he was sitting, reading to his students.’
It told them nothing, and Michael’s expression was unhappy as he led the way inside the hostel, where he asked the Batayl men again what they thought had happened.
‘And do not accuse the Carmelites unless you have solid evidence to prove it,’ he warned.
Browne glowered and folded his arms, petulantly declining to speak unless he could reiterate his firmly held convictions.
‘Perhaps it was suicide,’ suggested Pepin with a Gallic shrug. ‘Coslaye has not been himself since Dunning gave Newe Inn away.’
‘It was not suicide,’ said Bartholomew, trying to gauge the Frenchman’s expression in the flickering light. Had he dispatched his Principal for being a Francophobe? ‘Killing yourself with a blow to the back of the head is virtually impossible.’
‘Virtually impossible,’ pounced Pepin. ‘That means there is a chance that I am right. Yes?’
‘A very small one.’ Bartholomew gave up trying to read Pepin, and turned to Browne. ‘Did you and Coslaye come straight home after visiting Newe Inn earlier this evening?’
‘Coslaye did, but I had business elsewhere.’ Browne scowled when Michael indicated that this was not enough of an answer. ‘All right, I went to watch the Carmelite Priory. But so what? It is not illegal to stare at friaries. I only wish I had stayed longer, because then they could not have sneaked into our home and murdered our Principal!’
There was a growl of agreement from the students, while Bartholomew thought that Browne’s reply did Pepin no favours – if Coslaye had arrived home without Browne, and all the others had been at a sermon in St Mary the Great, it meant that Coslaye and Pepin had been alone together.
‘The Carmelites hate us,’ said Browne, eagerly seizing the opportunity to put his case. ‘And it is obvious what happened: when Coslaye did not immediately agree to Etone’s offer of a truce, one of them came here and murdered him, just as they tried to murder him when they threw that book at the Convocation.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ cried Pepin suddenly, raising the lamp to illuminate what Cynric held. ‘Maybe you are wrong to accuse the White Friars, because here is a big book – one with blood all over it!’
‘It is Bartholomew’s,’ said Browne. ‘I saw him bring it. Is he Coslaye’s murderer, then?’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael, raising his hand when several students moved threateningly towards the physician. ‘He is not in the habit of dispatching patients, especially after expending so much effort on making them well.’
‘Surgery!’ spat Browne. ‘Such techniques are contrary to God’s will. Doubtless Satan wanted the soul he should have had at the Convocation, and ordered Bartholomew to put matters right.’
‘If Coslaye’s surgery was against the will of God, then it cannot have been the Devil demanding his death now,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘If you must make slanderous accusations, at least ensure they are logical. However, I think we had better inspect your own books before we go any further.’
Without waiting for Browne’s response, he stalked towards the shelf where Batayl kept its small collection of reading material. When all eyes were on the monk, Cynric promptly shoved the bestiary back at Bartholomew with a moue of distaste.
‘Here is our murder weapon,’ said Michael, withdrawing the tome at the very bottom of the pile. He held it aloft, so the Batayl men could see the dark mess along its spine. ‘The blood is still wet, and you can see hair adhering to it. Coslaye’s.’
‘It is Acton’s Questio Disputata,’ breathed Pepin. ‘The book that almost killed him last time.’
Browne’s face was white with horror. ‘The fact that Coslaye was dispatched with one of our books does not mean that we did it. Anyone could have come in, grabbed the tome and hit him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now answer some questions. Who found him out here?’
‘Browne did,’ replied Pepin, rather quickly. ‘When everyone came back from the sermon, we had something to eat, then sat inside together, waiting for Cynric to come and talk to us about Poitiers. Browne—’
‘Poitiers!’ spat Browne angrily. ‘I am sick of hearing about Poitiers! We won – France is demoralised, she is crippled by debt, her peasants are on the verge of revolt, and our own army continues to ravage her farms and villages. Is this not enough? Must we continue to gloat over the bloody slaughter of her boys, too?’
‘Coslaye was not here,’ Pepin went on, after a brief pause in which everyone looked startled by the outburst. ‘And after a while we became worried, because we all knew how eager he was to hear Cynric. We went to look for him. Browne came out here to check the latrines and there he was …’
‘How long had he been missing?’ Michael demanded.
‘When he returned from Newe Inn, he sent me out to buy some ale to drink while we listened to Cynric,’ replied Pepin. ‘He was not here when I got back, and none of us saw him again until Browne found his corpse.’
‘You have three choices for suspects, Brother,’ said Browne tightly. ‘Namely Bartholomew, a Carmelite or the Devil. It is a pity you did not bother to catch the villain who tried to kill poor Coslaye the first time, because if you had, we might not be mourning him now.’
The next day was cloudy, and the dry heat of the past few days had turned humid. Bartholomew was called before dawn to tend one of the men in the castle, and then was summoned to the hovels on the towpath, where the riverfolk lived. As usual, they were uncommunicative, and it took some time to ascertain exactly what they wanted him to do. Eventually, he managed to evince that several were suffering from stomach pains.
‘Carp,’ said Torvin tersely.
Bartholomew was not surprised. The river was an open sewer, and waste was discharged into it by several friaries, Colleges and hostels, not to mention private houses and two mills. The fish in it were far from healthy, but the riverfolk devoured them anyway, despite his repeated urging to set their nets farther upstream.
‘When did they eat it?’ he asked.
The riverfolk exchanged glances, and he had the feeling that a silent conversation was taking place, one from which he was excluded.
‘Friday,’ replied Torvin eventually.
‘Three days,’ mused Bartholomew. Pangs from tainted food usually eased sooner. He examined all five patients, then sat back perplexed. They looked unwell, with ashen complexions and dark smudges under their eyes, but did not seem to be in unbearable discomfort. He wrote out the remedy he usually dispensed for upset stomachs, then sent a child to the apothecary, remembering to include th
reepence with the note, because the riverfolk had no money of their own.
‘Perhaps you should avoid fish from the river until after it rains,’ he suggested. ‘Then the rubbish will be washed away, and the water will be cleaner.’
‘They were not from the river,’ said Torvin. ‘They came from Newe Inn’s pond.’
Bartholomew remembered how ill he had felt after swallowing water from the pool. Then he frowned as something occurred to him: Batayl had also suffered from roiling innards, and Browne had admitted to poaching from the library’s grounds – fish that Pepin had added to his stew. Had the stolen carp been responsible for the sickness that had claimed an entire hostel, rather than the dangerously old meat that he had assumed was the culprit?
‘It is not stealing,’ said Torvin, misunderstanding his silence. ‘No one else wants it.’
‘It is University property now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You do not want to be caught there, so it might be wise to stay away. Besides, I think there is something wrong with the water.’
‘It did stink,’ conceded Torvin.
‘Stink of what?’
‘Corpses,’ replied Torvin darkly. ‘But we were too hungry to care. Will this mean you lose five marks to Surgeon Holm? Because we are caught taking carp?’
‘Not unless you tell him. I certainly will not.’
Amused and conspiratorial smirks flew between the riverfolk, and they all nodded. When the child returned with the remedy, Bartholomew fed it to his patients, then walked home. He had missed church, and the procession was making its way down St Michael’s Lane. Ayera was talking to Langelee at the front of the column, and Bartholomew experienced a twinge of unease when he remembered that he would have to tackle the geometrician that day about Gyseburne’s accusation. With a lurch of alarm, he saw Ayera was limping.
‘Not now,’ said Ayera, when Bartholomew indicated he wanted to talk. ‘I have an appointment, and I am late already. Suttone’s masses are much longer than William’s.’
‘An appointment?’ asked Thelnetham, overhearing. ‘Surely, it is too early for business?’
‘Not when horses are being discussed,’ said Ayera, although his smile was distinctly strained.
‘This is important,’ pressed Bartholomew.
‘So is the horse. I have been negotiating to buy it for weeks now, and would hate to lose it after all my efforts.’
‘Buy it with what?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically. ‘I thought your uncle had left you with nothing.’
Ayera’s smile froze. ‘I hardly think my finances are your affair, and it is ungentlemanly in you to raise such matters. Now, if you will excuse me, I have people to meet.’
He strode away, leaving Bartholomew staring helplessly after him. Now what? Should he follow, to see where Ayera was really going at such a peculiar hour? He took a step up the lane, but someone grabbed his arm and stopped him.
‘No.’ Clippesby’s face was pale, and his eyes had the curiously wild expression that said something was upsetting him. ‘He will prove to be too dangerous an adversary.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bartholomew relented when the Dominican flinched at the agitation in his voice, and spoke more gently. ‘What have you seen, John?’
‘The owls in Bridge Street …’ Clippesby saw Bartholomew’s exasperation and began again. ‘I happened to be in the castle when that raid took place, hiding with two frightened cows. And I saw Ayera. He was mud-splattered, fully armoured, and he was talking to that scribe.’
‘What scribe?’
‘The Carmelite Willelmus, whom Doctor Rougham later spirited away for personal nursing. I did not catch much of the discussion, because they kept their voices low, but I did hear Ayera say that the attack had failed because the raiders had retreated too soon.’
‘So?’ asked Bartholomew, although his stomach churned. ‘He was a soldier once, and is more than qualified to make that sort of assessment.’
‘But what was he doing at the castle at such an hour? Especially wearing armour.’
Bartholomew shrugged, loath to accept the conclusions to which Clippesby’s claims were driving him. ‘Perhaps he has taken a lover outside the town, and he stopped at the castle on his way home when he saw there was trouble.’
‘His lady lives in the Jewry, and he tends to dress nicely for her – his best tabard, not a grubby cloak with a hood that conceals his face. He does not don full battle gear for her, either.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Bartholomew, hating what the rational part of his mind was telling him; he still did not want to believe it. ‘That Ayera joined the attack on the castle?’
‘The bats assure me that he will have an excuse that exonerates him completely,’ said Clippesby, taking refuge in his eccentricity with considerable relief. But the guileless smile he tried to force would not come. ‘Unfortunately, the cows do not agree.’
‘We must catch Coslaye’s killer before Thursday, Matt, or Batayl is certain to make trouble at the ceremony,’ said Michael worriedly after breakfast. ‘They will blame the Carmelites, whose feisty novices will react with violence. Or worse, Batayl may accuse one of the library’s supporters – such as you – of the crime. They already know you own a bloodstained book.’
‘I have an alibi for Coslaye’s death,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I was at Bene’t College.’
‘You think Heltisle will rally to your defence, do you? He has never liked you, and I imagine he will be delighted to see you in trouble.’
‘It would please him,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘However, he will not stand by and see me accused of murder when he knows I am innocent. Besides, he gave me a book, so perhaps he—’
‘A book he wanted out of his College. He was not being generous – he just saw it as a convenient way to avoid giving you cash. But never mind this. We are going to be busy today, not just with Coslaye’s murder, but with the other deaths, too.’
‘And the castle raid,’ said Bartholomew. He took a deep breath and forged on when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘Because Ayera may be involved. Two witnesses saw him there.’
‘What witnesses?’ asked Michael sceptically.
‘Clippesby and Gyseburne,’ supplied Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But Gyseburne will deny it if you question him, because he says Ayera frightens him.’
Michael shook his head firmly. ‘Their claims are a nonsense. Langelee told me only last night that Gyseburne had a reputation for secret drinking in York, which led him to all manner of lunatic imaginings, while Clippesby has been odder than usual of late. He announced before church this morning that his rat would be enrolling as a Regent in the Faculty of Canon Law.’
Bartholomew should have been relieved that the accusations against Ayera had been explained away – and he knew for a fact that Gyseburne did enjoy a drink, while Clippesby was currently in one of his more fey phases – but there remained an unpleasantly niggling doubt at the back of his mind, and he knew it would only ease when he had heard Ayera deny the charges himself. He decided to speak to the geometrician as soon as he could corner him alone.
‘How will you move forward on your investigations?’ he asked of Michael, forcing his mind back to the present. ‘You have no new leads to follow.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘So we must go out and find some. Please note that I am including you in my plans. I cannot manage alone, not without a Junior Proctor. Besides, you did mention a desire to see justice for Northwood, a man you liked and who was your friend.’
Bartholomew said nothing, loath to admit that what he had learned about Northwood since had made him wonder whether he had really known the man at all: his bullying of novices, his inexplicable dealings with exemplars, the possibility that he had blackmailed Vale, and the fact that he had probably been experimenting with lamp fuel on the sly. Of course, to counter all that was his patient tutoring of Julitta and the fact that he had refused to help Tulyet build a weapon. In all, Bartholomew was not sure what to make of Northwood.
Their first stop was the Carmelite Priory, where they learned that everyone had an alibi for Coslaye’s death, because they had all been at a meeting to discuss arrangements for Corpus Christi. Etone had even conducted a roll call, as he had wanted to ensure that every friar, novice and lay-brother was briefed on his responsibilities for the forthcoming festivities. It would have been impossible for anyone to slip out and go a-murdering.
‘Thank God!’ sighed Michael as they left. ‘We had better inform Batayl immediately, to ensure they do not stage a revenge killing.’
‘Yes, but exonerating the Carmelites means you have no good suspects. Personally, I thought Riborowe or Jorz might be responsible. For friars, they are vindictive men.’
‘They are,’ agreed Michael. Then he stopped walking and closed his eyes. ‘Blast! I neglected to ask them to confirm Coslaye’s claim that he was arguing with them over soot when the castle was raided, and now it is too late – they will be at their prayers. I must be losing my touch.’
Bartholomew studied him closely. ‘You seem distracted. Is anything specific worrying you?’
Michael’s smile was wan. ‘Other than the prospect of a riot when the library opens, and the unsolved murders of Vale, Northwood, the Londons, Coslaye and possibly Sawtre and Rolee, too? Well, there is the rumour my beadles reported this morning – that something terrible will happen on Corpus Christi. Several of them have heard it, and the tale seems to have taken root among scholars and townsmen alike.’
‘What sort of “something terrible”?’
‘They were unable to say. Regardless, I am extremely concerned.’
While Michael went to inform Batayl that the Carmelites did not kill Coslaye, Bartholomew returned to College, where he put his students through their paces until the bell sounded for the noonday meal. They escaped with relief when Clippesby approached to report that Langelee had asked William to preside over dinner that day because he was busy elsewhere; the meal would be delayed for a few moments while the Franciscan tried to learn the appropriate grace. Puzzled, as the Master rarely delegated mealtime duties, Bartholomew used the spare time to hunt down Ayera, but the geometrician had not been seen in the College since church.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 24
