‘A black, jelly-like substance,’ replied Rougham. ‘It can be—’
‘Rougham, stop!’ gasped Bartholomew, appalled. He had honestly believed that he was the only one who had remembered the rock oil, and was shocked to learn he had been wrong.
‘Wait!’ cried Rougham, when the leader raised his sword to hit Bartholomew again. ‘I can tell you more. It is not found in England – you will have to order it from the Holy Land.’
‘If you are lying—’ began one of the others, taller and heftier than his companions.
‘He is not,’ said the first man. He turned to his cronies. ‘Now kill them.’
‘What?’ shrieked Rougham, shocked. ‘But I told you what you wanted to know!’
‘Yes, and we are grateful. But not grateful enough to spare you.’
Staggering to his feet, Bartholomew fumbled in his bag for one of his surgical knives, determined not to go without a fight. He lashed out at the big man, causing him to howl in pain, but the others moved in quickly and the ‘weapon’ was dashed from his hand. He was groping desperately for another when there was a shout from farther down the street. Tulyet’s soldiers were coming.
The attackers promptly turned and shot down a nearby alley, pausing just long enough to roll a cart across its mouth. By the time Tulyet’s guards had scrambled across it, the ambushers had vanished into the night.
‘You told them about the rock oil, Rougham,’ breathed Bartholomew, making no effort to disguise his dismay. ‘How could you?’
‘Because I did not want to die.’ Rougham’s voice was unsteady, and he leaned heavily against the wall. ‘I was trying to save both our lives.’
‘Dying would have been preferable to revealing such a deadly secret to men like them!’
Rougham rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Do not rail at me, Bartholomew. I am not proud of what I did, but I was frightened. And all is not lost, anyway. As you no doubt know, rock oil comes from a wilderness far east of the Mediterranean, not the Holy Land. I misled them rather cleverly.’
‘It will not deter them for long. What have we unleashed on the world? What evil have we done?’
Rougham was silent, and Bartholomew knew there was no point in berating him further. He walked away, to stand alone and bring his temper under control. As he bent to retrieve his forceps and knife, he glimpsed the merest of movements in the shadows. Hands raised, he approached.
‘They have the secret,’ he told Dame Pelagia. ‘You alerted Tulyet’s men too late.’
‘Damn!’ she whispered. ‘I should have known you physicians were too dangerous to leave alive. Did I hear you mention rock oil to Rougham just now? Is that the secret ingredient?’
Bartholomew started to deny it, but faltered into silence as her beady eyes bored into his – he was not good at lying at the best of times, but it was a lost cause with Pelagia.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked numbly. ‘We cannot let them escape with this knowledge.’
‘No,’ agreed Pelagia. ‘But you have done more than enough tonight. Go home.’
And with that enigmatic remark, she slipped away into the darkness.
CHAPTER 9
Breakfast that Tuesday was a dismal affair, and Bartholomew’s stomach churned with anxiety. He was appalled that Rougham had capitulated so easily, and was in an agony of worry over what Dame Pelagia might do with the information – not only that she might arrange for the attackers to die in order to prevent them from using the formula, but that she would pass what she had learned to the King, who might well order experiments of his own. And what of Rougham and Bartholomew himself? Would she take steps to ensure that they never revealed the secret again?
He was also concerned about Ayera, who had not appeared for church. A furtive glance into his colleague’s room showed that the bed had not been slept in, and Ayera’s students said they had not seen him since the previous night. Normally, Bartholomew would have reported his worries to Langelee, but the Master was also absent, and no one knew where he was, either.
Julitta troubled his thoughts, too, because she was about to bind herself to a man who was both a brash, conceited fortune-hunter and a coward, too – it had quickly become apparent that Holm had run straight home and barricaded himself in, making no effort to tell the soldiers and beadles he had passed en route that his colleagues were in danger.
‘Lord!’ breathed William, wiping pottage-spotted hands on his habit as they stood to leave the hall. Some of the lumps were large, and Bartholomew felt queasy when he saw them mashed into the already-filthy fabric. ‘That was an unpleasant repast. I shall have to visit my brethren at the priory for victuals again. Would you like to come, Matthew? They have eggs on Tuesdays.’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I should see what my students—’
‘They are more than ready for their disputations,’ interrupted William. ‘There is no need to persecute them.’
‘Yes, let them be,’ added Michael, overhearing. ‘They will not disgrace you in the debating chamber, and I have need of you today, anyway.’
‘They speak the truth,’ said Thelnetham, the most academically gifted of the Fellows, and so someone whose opinion Bartholomew was willing to trust more than Michael, who just wanted his help, or William, who was not really qualified to say. ‘You have prepared them well.’
‘Set them some reading, and then we shall leave,’ ordered Michael.
Bartholomew’s anxieties were such that he hastened to comply, but Valence, who had accompanied him to see a patient before dawn that morning, waylaid him with a question.
‘You applied an ointment of elder leaves for that bruised hand earlier,’ the student said. ‘But Meryfeld’s apprentices told me that he uses a poultice of red lead.’
‘Then he will be angry with them – he likes to keep the contents of his concoctions to himself.’
Valence waved a dismissive hand. ‘There is nothing special about any of his potions – they are either the same as yours, or they contain inert elements that will neither harm nor benefit the taker. Except for the red lead that he adds to his remedy for contusions. It is because red lead is cold and dry in the second degree?’
Bartholomew did not want to denigrate his colleague by saying that Meryfeld probably had no idea what red lead would do, other than perhaps provide a particular colour or smell.
‘You must ask him,’ he replied. Then he relented; it was not a helpful answer, and Valence was trying to learn. ‘I performed a series of tests on rats once, and concluded that any benefits accruing from red lead are outweighed by its toxicity. So I never use it in any of my medicines.’
‘I see,’ said Valence. ‘How did you determine that it is toxic?’
‘Because the rats suffered convulsions. When I looked inside them, their digestive tracts were inflamed, their brains were swollen and their livers …’ Bartholomew trailed off, suddenly realising that admitting to conducting dissections, even on rodents, was unwise.
Valence smiled. ‘Your secret is safe with me, sir. And now I shall go to read to the others.’
Bartholomew climbed the stairs to Michael’s room, hoping Valence could be trusted, because he did not like to imagine what would be made of the fact that he chopped up dead animals with a view to assessing the impact of poisons. He would be expelled from the University for certain!
The monk had been briefing his own students. They were by far Michaelhouse’s most diligent pupils, quite happy to work alone, which was fortunate, because his duties as Senior Proctor often called him away. He sighed when they left to read the texts he had recommended.
‘I had a busy night,’ he said, flopping on to his bed in a way that made it creak ominously, and Bartholomew fear it might crash through the ceiling into his own room below. ‘After the attack on you, Tulyet ordered every soldier and available beadle out on patrol.’
‘But nothing happened?’ Bartholomew leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
‘The town was as quiet a
s a tomb – except for a fight between Essex Hostel and Bene’t.’
‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes, again. In case you had not noticed, your wretched library is still causing considerable discord among our scholars – discord that is intensifying as its opening draws nearer. If only I had a Junior Proctor to help me keep the peace … But never mind this. I have reached some conclusions about the raiders. It is obvious now what is happening.’
‘It is?’
‘They have been sneaking into the town for weeks to reconnoitre. Adam and the others must have seen them, and they were murdered to prevent them from telling the Sheriff that trouble was afoot. And Saturday’s raid was the culmination of all their spying.’
‘But it was unsuccessful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were driven off empty-handed.’
‘Quite, which means they will try again – they will not let all their efforts go unrewarded. My grandmother heard a rumour, one she believes, that says they will strike during the Corpus Christi pageant, when all our soldiers and beadles will be busy policing the crowds.’
‘Then cancel it.’
‘We cannot cancel Corpus Christi!’ exclaimed Michael, shocked. ‘It is one of the most important celebrations of the year – religious and secular.’
‘Then call off the launch of the library. That will free the beadles to—’
‘If we do, we will never have a benefaction from a townsman again, because Dunning’s disappointment will know no bounds. We shall just have to be vigilant.’
‘Vigilant for attacks by robbers who have already stormed the castle and killed experienced soldiers, and for mischief by the disaffected half of the University that does not want a Common Library?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘That should be easy enough!’
Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘If we solve these murders by the day after tomorrow, perhaps our rebellious scholars will stop saying that repositories for books are dangerous.’
‘I think it is time that we reviewed what we know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To see if there are clues we have overlooked.’
Michael brightened. ‘Very well. We shall do it in the Brazen George, then, where a small repast might stimulate our minds into some constructive thinking.’
The streets were busy as Bartholomew and Michael walked to the High Street. Soldiers were everywhere, and Bartholomew could only suppose that Tulyet had drafted reinforcements from other towns. People continued their Corpus Christi preparations, but uneasily, much of the pleasure of the occasion stripped away by the fear of invasion.
‘I am going to close on Thursday,’ confided Landlord Lister, as he served them bread and a selection of cold meats. ‘I do not want to attract the attention of mercenaries by selling ale.’
‘They will not come if everyone is expecting them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The element of surprise is an important factor in raids like these. And they have lost it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lister. ‘But the burgesses are taking no chances. Most of the wealthier ones have already left town, taking their families and valuables with them. Your sister and brother-in-law are among them, as a matter of fact, Doctor. They left this morning with their apprentices. Still, if these villains do attack, at least they will not get the taxes. Those are no longer in the castle.’
‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Are they dispatched to London, then?’
‘There is no need to be sly with me, Brother,’ said Lester, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Everyone knows the University has agreed to hide them for us.’
Michael stared at him. ‘That is untrue. We have done nothing of the kind!’
Lister winked knowingly. ‘Of course not.’
Michael rubbed his eyes when the landlord had gone. ‘This tale is false, but I doubt anyone will believe me. So you had better start analysing clues before I jump on a horse and follow your family to some peaceful village, because I am beginning to feel unpleasantly overwhelmed.’
Bartholomew was not sure how to begin, as they had scant evidence to analyse. He ate some bread, and tried to concentrate, but his mind kept straying back to what Rougham had done.
‘I did not think anyone else had remembered,’ he said unhappily. ‘The others recalled the pitch, brimstone and quicklime, but not the rock oil. How could Rougham have been so weak?’
‘Not everyone possesses your courage, Matt, especially when confronted by sword-wielding criminals. Incidentally, my grandmother knows a great deal about experiments to produce wildfire, but admitted that rock oil did not feature in any of the ones she is aware of.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, appalled. ‘If she intends to make some herself, she will be taking a serious risk. Rock oil needs to be distilled first, which is an extremely hazardous process. Then it must be dissolved in brimstone or resin, which is not easy, either.’
‘I will warn her,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot see her looming over a cauldron, preparing wicked substances to be used in battles.’ Bartholomew could, rather easily. ‘She thinks the men who attacked you are from the same band that has been spying …’
‘Probably. I noticed last night that the armour they wore was identical to that of the fellows who chased me along the river last week.’
‘You were a victim of your own predictability,’ chided Michael. ‘Everyone knows that the medici meet of an evening to meddle with lamp fuel, and that you walk home afterwards in the dark. All these villains had to do was wait until you happened by.’
Michael was right, and Bartholomew was disgusted with himself. He did not think he would ever sleep easy again, knowing that he bore at least some of the responsibility for the disaster.
‘Eight deaths,’ said Michael, after a while. ‘Four men in a library garden, Sawtre crushed by a bookcase, Rolee toppled from his library’s steps, Teversham strangled by a book chain, and Coslaye brained with a tome – twice. This cannot be coincidence, so tell me what it means.’
With an effort, Bartholomew dragged his thoughts away from wildfire. ‘Five of these victims supported the Common Library, two opposed it, and Rolee voted against it, but later decided to give it one of his books. It seems unlikely that they all died by the same hand.’
Michael frowned. ‘Northwood, Vale and the Londons were seen loitering in Cholles Lane before entering Newe Inn’s garden; Coslaye and the apprentice thought they heard a bell ringing; and we have reason to believe that they were trying to invent lamp fuel.’
Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think they were experimenting with wildfire? I liked Northwood, but he did allow his intellect to lead him – he might have overlooked the ethics of the situation for the thrill of solving a mystery. Meanwhile, Vale wanted to be rich, and the secret for such a weapon will be worth a great deal of money …’
‘And the London brothers seemed decent, but were quiet and private and no one knew them very well. It would certainly explain why my grandmother searched their home.’
They were both silent, thinking hard.
‘I am sure Newe Inn’s pond holds a clue,’ said Michael after a while. ‘There is definitely something sinister about it – it is unusually deep for a start.’ He sighed. ‘We shall need our wits about us if we are to crack this case, for I sense a very devious mind behind it.’
‘Ayera,’ said Bartholomew softly. He held up his hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know you had good reasons to dismiss what Gyseburne and Clippesby said about him being involved in the castle raid, but I tackled him about it anyway, and—’
‘You did what?’ Michael was shocked.
‘I asked why he was wearing armour under his tabard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And why he was limping. He had no convincing explanation for either. Moreover, he was to hand when Langelee was attacked, and he has taken to going out at peculiar hours.’
Michael was pale. ‘I hope to God you are wrong.’
‘So do I.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am anxious about La
ngelee, too. He has also been leaving Michaelhouse at odd times and was strangely defensive of Ayera.’
‘They are friends – of course he was defensive. And there will be a good reason for his disappearances. The College is in debt, so perhaps he is working to raise new funds.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘That is what worries me.’
Beadle Meadowman came with urgent documents for Michael to sign, and while he waited for the monk to finish, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and took his new bestiary to Deynman. The Librarian was sitting in the corner of the hall, making an inventory of his books, although as he rarely let anyone, not even Fellows, remove them for personal study, it was hardly necessary.
‘I am never lending anything to anyone again,’ Deynman declared angrily. ‘No one knows how to treat books.’ He pointed accusingly at the volume Bartholomew held. ‘And to prove my point, look at that one. It is drenched in blood.’
‘Hardly drenched,’ said Bartholomew, handing it over. ‘Just a smear or two. If you do not want it for Michaelhouse, you can take it to Newe Inn.’
‘I do want it,’ said Deynman, clutching it possessively. ‘I shall clean it off and keep it safe.’
‘You do not know what it is yet,’ said Bartholomew, amused.
‘I do not care. It has pages and a cover, so it is a book. And books belong with me, because I am Librarian.’ Deynman pronounced the last word grandly, still delighted with the way it sounded. ‘No one is going to write “arse” in this little beauty.’
Bartholomew regarded him in bafflement. ‘Has someone—’
‘Yes, someone has!’ snapped Deynman. ‘In Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘I do.’ Suddenly, Deynman’s indignation evaporated, and he reverted to the likeable but dim-witted lad Bartholomew knew and loved. ‘My remit is to care for these books, but when a senior member desecrates one, what am I supposed to do?’
‘A Fellow?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to think of who might have done such a thing.
‘Langelee,’ confided Deynman in an agonised whisper. ‘He asked to borrow it last week, and I let him, because he is the Master. But when it came back … look!’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 27
