Uneasy in his mind – he and Michael were the only ones with permission to leave Michaelhouse during teaching hours, so Ayera should have been home – Bartholomew took his place at the high table. As usual, Michael sat on one side of him, while Clippesby was on the other, although the Dominican did not stay there for long: his rat escaped during William’s muddled and largely improvised prayers, and he was asked to leave.
Dinner was a paltry affair of stale bread and a watery stew that tasted powerfully of old fish. It reminded Bartholomew of the concoction that had poisoned Batayl, which then made him think of the riverfolk and his own illness. Had Newe Inn’s water killed Northwood and the others? Cynric was adamant that the pond was evil, and while Bartholomew did not believe such notions, he did know that superstitions sometimes held a grain of truth. Perhaps there was something wrong with the pool, and Cynric was right to be wary of it.
‘I think I was overly ambitious earlier, when I suggested we just go out and unearth a few clues,’ said Michael, dispiritedly. ‘It is easier said than done.’
‘Do you have no new information at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or no good suspects?’
‘I have hundreds of suspects – that is the problem. Northwood, the London brothers and Vale supported the library, which means half the University bore them malice. Literally. And their sly experiments with lamp fuel mean we must include the medici on the list, too.’
‘Holm is the only one you should seriously consider.’
Michael gazed at him. ‘It is unlike you to take against someone so. What has he done wrong?’
Bartholomew did not want to admit that his antipathy stemmed from the fact that he hated the thought of Holm hurting Julitta. ‘He is an abysmal surgeon,’ he hedged. ‘He was on the side of the French at Poitiers, and he can barely open his mouth without lying. He told Dunning that he was at the castle all Saturday night, but he was not – he slunk off at dusk. And Clippesby says he has a lover.’
‘Really?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘Who is she?’
‘I did not let him say.’ Bartholomew shrugged defensively when Michael rolled his eyes. ‘It was gossip, Brother, and I am no Weasenham.’
‘I suppose Holm is unappealing, but no more so than the rest of your colleagues.’
‘Gyseburne is a decent man,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He—’
‘He is abnormally fascinated with urine, which you now tell me can be used to make things explode. Coupled with his secret drinking, it means he is a man to watch very carefully.’
‘It does not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘My colleagues – with the exception of Holm – are only interested in healing.’
‘And in making their fortunes with lamp fuel,’ added Michael dryly. ‘There is no group of men better qualified to kill by stealth, as I have said before.’
‘But that assumes Northwood and the others were experimenting with lamp fuel, and we have no evidence to prove they were. They may have been trying to make ink or paper. There will be money in those commodities, too.’
‘I suppose so,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘And Northwood was a Carmelite, so was in a position to monitor what Riborowe and Jorz were doing.’
‘I cannot see Northwood spying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I am not sure what to make of the tales we have been told about him, either. He never gave me the slightest indication that he was eager to amass riches. He was just a man keen to stretch his mind and learn new things.’
‘That is not necessarily a virtue.’ Michael grimaced. ‘I know I sound like William, but we must set some limits on scholarship, or who knows where it might lead? Look at Tynkell, Riborowe, Langelee and Walkelate, who helped to build a ribauldequin for the French wars. Is that any way to use the wits God gave them?’
‘Restrictions will not prevent that sort of activity, Brother. It will only hinder those who are trying to make discoveries for the common good. It is—’
The debate was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Cynric.
‘Come quickly,’ the book-bearer said. ‘Someone has knocked Master Langelee over the head.’
Langelee was sitting disconsolately in Michaelhouse’s kitchen with Agatha hovering protectively behind him. Ayera was there, too, telling her how he had found the Master staggering around dazedly in Cholles Lane. Bartholomew inspected the bump on the back of Langelee’s head, but although it was no doubt uncomfortable, there did not seem to be any serious damage.
‘What were you doing in Cholles Lane?’ asked Michael, watching Langelee wince as Bartholomew applied a cool compress. ‘Visiting a tavern?’
‘I do not frequent taverns during the daylight hours,’ replied Langelee haughtily. ‘I was in Newe Inn’s garden, if you must know. I was curious to see the place where those four scholars died.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
‘Because it was a peculiar business, and it involved my University,’ replied Langelee tartly. ‘You two do not seem to be making any progress, so I decided to poke about myself.’
‘And did you learn anything?’ asked Michael, ignoring the slight.
Langelee grimaced. ‘No.’
Michael turned to Ayera. ‘And what were you doing in the vicinity? You do not have licence to wander about the town during teaching hours.’
Ayera’s expression was difficult to read. ‘I do not answer to you, Brother.’
‘I gave him permission to be out today,’ explained Langelee. ‘His family have offered to lend him the money to purchase that horse – the one that will benefit the College if we put it to stud – so he went to inspect it. And thank God he happened by! I can well imagine the rumours that would have started if the Master of Michaelhouse had been discovered lying insensible in Newe Inn’s garden.’
‘But Ayera claimed he found you in Cholles Lane,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not in—’
‘I was stunned, so my memory is foggy,’ interrupted Langelee curtly, while Ayera’s face remained curiously blank. ‘Do not nit-pick, Bartholomew.’
‘Newe Inn’s pond is haunted,’ declared Agatha matter-of-factly, before the physician could press the matter further. ‘Everyone in the town knows it. And on certain very dark nights, strange smells seep out. It is the reek of Hell escaping.’
‘I did not notice any smells,’ said Langelee. ‘But someone came along and hit me very hard. It is fortunate I have a thick skull, because I am sure he meant to kill.’
‘Do you have any idea who the rogue might have been?’ asked Ayera.
‘None at all, but when I find out, I am going to hit him back!’
‘Please do not,’ begged Michael. ‘I do not want another murder to investigate, and there may be an innocent explanation for what happened – one of the workmen may have seen you, and mistook you for a thief. But I shall visit Newe Inn as soon as I have set my students some work. No one strikes the Master of my College and gets away with it.’
Agatha and Langelee followed him out, leaving Bartholomew alone with Ayera. The geometrician went to pour himself a cup of wine, at which point Bartholomew noticed two things: that Ayera’s hands were unsteady and that he was still favouring his left leg. He decided there would not be a better time to ascertain the truth.
‘There has been a report that you were among the men who attacked the castle,’ he said baldly.
Ayera gaped at him. ‘Me? Why would I be involved in such a thing?’
‘I cannot imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But perhaps it explains why you are wearing half-armour under your academic tabard now, and possibly why you are limping, too.’
Ayera continued to stare. ‘I often wear armour under my tabard. This is a dangerous town, in case you had not noticed. And I hurt my knee just now, helping Langelee back to the College.’
‘May I see it?’ Bartholomew was more than capable of distinguishing between sprains and injuries sustained in armed skirmishes.
‘No, you may not.’ Ayera’s expression was impossible to read. ‘Or are you calling me a liar
?’
‘I will apologise if you show me a wrenched knee.’
‘What is going on?’ came a voice from the door. It was Langelee, and Bartholomew wondered how long the Master had been listening. For a large man, he could move with considerable stealth, a skill learned when he had performed dubious deeds for the Archbishop of York.
‘Bartholomew is accusing me of attacking the castle,’ replied Ayera, with a short laugh to tell the Master what he thought of such a ridiculous assertion.
‘Then he will stop it at once,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘There is discord enough in the College with William and Thelnetham sparring all the time. I will not have you two at it, too.’
‘Where lies the problem?’ asked Bartholomew, spreading his hands. ‘I am a physician, and I do not like to see my colleagues suffer. I may be able to ease this painful joint.’
‘I said stop,’ snapped Langelee. ‘And if you persist with these absurd claims, I shall do what other Masters would have done years ago – withdraw permission for you to put patients before your academic duties. That will make you think twice about causing friction in the Fellowship.’
The accusation was wholly unfair, because Bartholomew had never shirked his teaching responsibilities and Langelee knew it. ‘But—’
‘No buts. You enjoy considerable freedom at the moment. Do not make me curtail it.’
Bartholomew watched unhappily as the Master stalked from the kitchen. He half expected Ayera to shoot him a gloating smile as he followed, but the geometrician’s face was oddly impassive. When they had gone, Bartholomew flopped on to a bench and rubbed a hand through his hair. Perhaps he should have been more subtle, and attempted to solicit information without Ayera realising what he was trying to do. But Ayera was not stupid, and would certainly have seen through such tactics. He looked up tiredly when Cynric came to find him.
‘There has been another death, boy,’ Cynric said quietly. ‘In Gonville Hall’s library this time.’
Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Who?’
‘The messenger did not say, but you had better hurry. The dead do not like to be kept waiting. There are too many angry souls floating around the town already, without adding another.’
It was not far to Gonville and Bartholomew, with Michael puffing at his heels, arrived there in moments. He was relieved when he saw Rougham waiting.
‘This is terribly embarrassing,’ Rougham said, wringing his hands. ‘I hope we can rely on your discretion. We do not want trouble with Bene’t College – they have the ear of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and we cannot afford to lose benefactions over this matter.’
‘What matter?’ gasped Michael. ‘What are you talking about?’
Rougham did not answer, and instead led them to the library. It contained mostly books on law, so Bartholomew had visited it only rarely. Like the libraries in King’s Hall and Bene’t, it was an elegantly appointed chamber, with a profusion of dark polished wood. The books sat in neat lines, each one attached to the wall by a chain to prevent theft. The room was usually busy with students, but it was quiet that day, and empty. Except for one man.
The feisty little scholar called Teversham was lying at a very peculiar angle by one of the lecterns, almost as if his upper half was suspended in thin air. At first, Bartholomew did not understand what he was seeing, but when he crouched next to the Bene’t Fellow, he saw a book-chain wrapped around his neck. He examined the body quickly, noting that there was a triangular indentation in Teversham’s forehead, which matched perfectly the corner of the lectern.
‘The floor is dreadfully uneven,’ said Rougham. ‘We will fix it one day, but at the moment, all our spare cash is going towards the chapel. Teversham must have tripped and struck his head.’
‘And landed on the book-chain?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘Which strangled him?’
‘It is technically possible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His head certainly came into contact with the lectern at some point, and he may well have fallen forward and become entangled.’
‘Where, unable to breathe but too dazed to do anything about it, he died,’ finished Rougham. ‘Thank you, Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you are not such a bad Corpse Examiner after all.’
‘Of course, he might equally well have been shoved into the lectern deliberately, and the chain wrapped around his throat when he was too befuddled to resist,’ added Bartholomew.
Rougham glared. ‘I take it back.’
‘Teversham is not a member of Gonville – he is a Fellow of Bene’t,’ said Michael. ‘So what was he doing here? I surmise he was alone, because otherwise someone would have rescued him.’
‘He came to consult Leycestria’s Qui Bene Praesunt,’ explained Rougham. ‘And he was alone, because I was lecturing on Plato, and ordered all the Gonville scholars to listen to me. Teversham was an old friend, and I thought he could be trusted not to do anything silly. Clearly I was wrong.’
‘Clearly,’ agreed Michael dryly. ‘Have you had any other visitors today? Or seen anyone loitering who should not have been here?’
‘No,’ said Rougham. ‘Yet your questions imply foul play, but this was an accident. Of course it was! We cannot have Bene’t scholars murdered in Gonville! It would cause trouble for certain.’
‘It would,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, I do not see how this can be a mishap. It is too … contrived. It is surely a case of unlawful killing.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no sign of a struggle, and the floor really is uneven. In other words, there is nothing to say one way or the other what really happened.’
Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Yet another death with a curious paucity of clues. Either we are dealing with a very sly killer, or we are both losing our touch.’
‘Or there is nothing to find,’ countered Rougham. ‘Not every death in the University is suspicious, Brother, and if you think so, it is time to follow Tynkell’s example, and retire.’
There was no more to be done, so Michael went to break the news to Bene’t. Bartholomew was ordered to wait outside, lest Heltisle took exception to his presence. The physician sat on the edge of a horse trough and pondered Teversham’s curious end. He had not been doing it for long before a shadow fell across him, and he looked up to see his sister.
‘What is happening in your wretched University now, Matt?’ she asked, perching next to him.
‘In what respect?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
‘All these deaths. Browne from Batayl has just told me that not only did four men die in the Common Library garden, but that Sawtre and Rolee died in libraries, too. He is braying to everyone that such places are dangerous.’
‘They seem to be, at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, supposing the rumours would really fly when word seeped out about Teversham’s demise.
‘Then please stay out of them,’ begged Edith. ‘I could not bear to lose you.’
When she had gone, Bonabes and Ruth strolled past. Every so often, one would bump against the other, and their hands would touch. They obviously thought they were being discreet, but a number of people noticed and grinned behind their backs. Michael appeared after what felt like an age.
‘They took it badly,’ he said, his plump face pale. Breaking such news was never pleasant. ‘But that is not surprising after Rolee. Two Fellows is a lot to lose in as many days.’
‘If Teversham was murdered, his death raises a whole new set of questions,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Because he, unlike the other victims, opposed the Common Library. Violently.’
‘True,’ said Michael. ‘And it means that I am now extremely confused and can no longer see even a glimmer of sense in all that has happened.’
‘Perhaps there is none to see,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And they are just a series of random and unconnected events.’
‘You do not really believe that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And neither do I.’
Bartholomew groaned when Michael said they needed to visit Newe Inn to i
nvestigate the assault on Langelee – he was rapidly becoming sick of the place. When they arrived, it was to find Walkelate dealing with parcels of books donated by people who wanted to be recorded as the foundation’s first benefactors. The door to the libri concatenati was closed, and the chamber holding the libri distribuendi was frantically busy. Sawdust was everywhere, and Bartholomew wondered how Walkelate could possibly think it would be ready in three days.
‘Langelee was assaulted?’ Walkelate whispered in horror, when Michael explained why they were there. ‘Here?’
‘In the garden,’ replied Michael. ‘By the pond, apparently, shortly before sext.’
‘Then his assailant chose his time well, because everyone was out then except Kente. The labourers and their apprentices went to a meeting in the Guild Hall about the pageant, while Frevill and I went to the Carmelite scriptorium, to commission labels for our shelves.’
‘But Kente was here?’
‘Yes. He is out at the moment, purchasing gilt, but he will not be long. Will you wait?’
Michael nodded. ‘The attack on our Master is a serious matter, and—’
He turned at the sound of feet on the stairs. It was Dunning, come to inspect progress again. His daughters were with him, with Bonabes behind. Walkelate promptly abandoned Michael, and scurried to greet them, assuring them that the work was much further forward than the untrained eye might think. Dunning did not look convinced.
‘It must be perfect,’ he said, worriedly, ‘or my Guild will think me a fool for wasting my money.’
‘It will be perfect,’ promised Walkelate. ‘But Aristotle is finished at last, and we will mount him on his shelf later today. Have you ever seen more exquisite craftsmanship?’
‘It is fine,’ acknowledged Dunning, running appreciative fingers across the bust. ‘Especially now you have given him less of a nose. I was right to ask you to remodel it, because he looked foreign with the great beak he had originally.’
‘Yet I think you will find he was foreign,’ Michael pointed out, amused. ‘Greek, I believe.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 25
