Walkelate and Frevill were at the cista, anxiously studying the plans that were spread across it, but the architect’s face broke into a smile when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.
‘We are almost ready,’ he said, eyes dancing with delight as he handed the monk the documents that needed his approval. ‘There is no question at all now that we will make the Corpus Christi deadline. We shall present the University a building that every scholar can be proud of.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, looking around appreciatively. ‘But where is Kente? Have the fumes made him ill again?’
‘He has not arrived yet. He must be mixing more wood-grease in his workshop at home. He likes to employ it liberally, which is why there is something of an aroma.’
‘Or perhaps he is with the libri concatenati,’ suggested Michael.
‘No, that room has been locked up since yesterday.’ The eager gleam was back in Walkelate’s eyes. ‘Would you like to see it? It is completely finished, and—’
‘No,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could say he would.
‘We have been discussing that nasty attack on Langelee,’ said Frevill, both hands to the small of his back. ‘But we have come up with nothing useful. We were not here when it happened, more is the pity – he may have been assaulted by the same villain who did away with Northwood and the others, and it would have been good to catch the rogue.’
‘It would,’ agreed Walkelate fervently. ‘Unpleasant incidents on the eve of our opening are not good news. Are you sure you two would not like to see the finished chamber?’
‘I would,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could decline a second time.
Michael heaved an impatient sigh as, with a happy grin, Walkelate took a key from a chain around his neck. He inserted it in the door, but it did not turn, and he frowned his puzzlement.
‘It is unlocked,’ he said, rattling it impatiently. ‘Yet it will not open. What is wrong?’
Bartholomew pointed to a small wedge at the bottom of the door. He kicked it out of the way, and the door opened easily.
‘We must have forgotten to secure it last night,’ said Frevill anxiously. ‘That is not good! I would not like one of our enemies to get in and damage something.’
‘You believe someone would be so petty?’ asked Bartholomew, yet as soon as the question was out, he knew it was a foolish one. He could name at least a dozen scholars who would think nothing of despoiling the place. Walkelate could, too, and began to do so.
‘Some of the Carmelites, Browne and that Batayl rabble, the Master and Fellows of Bene’t College, the Fellows of King’s Hall, Doctor Rougham of Gonville—’
‘Quite a lot, then,’ interrupted Bartholomew, suspecting the list was likely to continue for some time. He stepped into the room and looked around in awe. ‘It is splendid! I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather read.’
‘That is the best compliment you could have paid us,’ said Walkelate sincerely.
‘Master Walkelate designed this place to last,’ said Frevill, resting a callused hand on one of the shelves. ‘It is strange to think that scholars will be sitting here in a hundred years’ time.’
‘A thousand years,’ corrected Walkelate. ‘Our names will be read out at Corpus Christi masses long after our souls have been released from Purgatory.’
He and Michael went back to their documents, leaving Bartholomew to explore alone. The physician walked slowly, running his fingers along the polished wood as he admired the intricacy of the carvings. He smirked when he saw a dragon with Etone’s dour features, while Adam and Eve bore an uncanny likeness to Bonabes and Ruth. The only negative was the powerful aroma of oil and the somewhat earthy scent of the bale of hay that had been set in the middle of the room.
He was just walking past it, eyes fixed on the handsome sconces on the wall, when he tripped over something that had been left in the way. It was Kente, face-down on the floor. Quickly, he rested a hand on the carpenter’s neck, but Kente was cold and had clearly been dead for hours. Bartholomew could only suppose that he had lain there all night.
‘Brother!’ he called urgently. ‘It seems libraries really are dangerous places.’
Walkelate was distraught when he saw his artisan. He dropped to his knees, and began imploring Kente to sit up and announce that it was all a terrible joke. Bartholomew needed Frevill’s help to pull him away and seat him at the cista in the adjoining room with his back to the corpse. Michael fetched him a cup of wine, and urged him to sip.
‘How did it happen?’ demanded Walkelate, after several gulps had given him back some of his colour. ‘He was perfectly well when we parted last night. He said he just wanted to check that all was well before going home, and I left him to lock the door.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Michael.
‘Dusk,’ replied Walkelate shakily. ‘He was nearing the end of his endurance, so I suppose our gruelling schedule must have given him a seizure. He is not as strong as the rest of us.’
‘Or do you think he was murdered by one of the many scholars who hates what we have done here?’ asked Frevill with a scowl. ‘If so, it will not stop us from finishing. Indeed, I shall do all in my power to ensure it does open as planned, because the bonus Dunning promised … well, Kente’s family will need it now he has gone.’
‘Will you inspect him for us, Matthew?’ asked Walkelate brokenly. ‘His wife and children will want to know how he died.’
Bartholomew went to oblige, Michael at his heels. Walkelate began to weep, and Frevill tried to comfort him, gruff and awkward. The other workmen gathered around them, all shocked.
Bartholomew stared at the body, sensing something amiss. He knelt next to it, stretched out his hand, then jerked it away as something moved under Kente’s tunic. He leapt backwards when the sinuous body of a snake appeared.
It was the biggest viper he had ever seen, as long as his arm and unsettlingly thick. Michael shrieked his horror, and shot out of the room, displaying remarkable speed for someone so large. He slammed closed the door, then opened it a crack.
‘Matt, come out!’ he whispered, as if he imagined that the snake might hear and try to stop him. ‘Quickly.’
‘It must have been in the hay,’ said Bartholomew, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose it crawled out, and bit Kente when he inadvertently trod on it.’
‘Then come over here,’ hissed Michael urgently. ‘Before it bites you, too.’
When the monk turned to explain what was happening to the craftsmen, Bartholomew took Kente’s shoulders and moved him carefully. The adder slithered further into the carpenter’s clothes; it was cold, and wanted somewhere warm to hide.
There were two wounds in Kente’s ankle, ringed faintly with blood, and his leg was swollen and purple to the knee. His gums were inflamed, too – another symptom of snake poisoning. Bartholomew glanced at the door, recalling the wedge that had been jammed in it, but then saw that the floor of the adjoining chamber was littered with identical fragments.
‘Enough,’ shouted Michael, when he saw his friend still pondering over Kente’s body. ‘Come out immediately. That is an order!’
‘There is no danger, Brother. Snakes only attack when they are threatened.’
‘I doubt Kente would agree. And you are not Clippesby, who enjoys a peculiar rapport with wild beasts. Walk towards me now, before it is too late.’
Ignoring him, Bartholomew upended his medical bag, then took his forceps and gently placed them around the snake’s head. It did not struggle, so it was not difficult to pick it up and drop it into an empty sack. Michael screeched his horror at every stage, but Bartholomew ignored him. He closed the bag carefully and carried it towards the door.
‘Put it down,’ ordered Michael. ‘I shall stamp on it.’
‘I am going to release it in the garden.’
‘No, you are not!’ declared Michael, appalled. ‘Meadowman is there, dredging.’
‘Fling it over the wall towards Batayl,’ suggested Frevil
l, quite seriously.
‘Or even better, put it in the Carmelite Friary,’ added one of his workmates.
Bartholomew paid no attention to any of them. It was not far to the river, where there was plenty of long grass. When he arrived, he looked carefully both ways. Torvin the riverman was approaching from one direction, and Jorz from the other. Neither was close enough to be a problem. He opened the bag and watched the snake slither out.
‘I saw that,’ said Jorz, eyes wide as he backed away and crossed himself. ‘I saw you release your familiar – the Devil in serpent form.’
He dashed away before Bartholomew could respond to the charge. The physician sighed, realising he should have waited until Jorz had gone.
‘Ignore him.’ Bartholomew jumped; he had forgotten Torvin was there. ‘You were right to let it go. They are peaceful creatures, and want only to be left alone. Just like us riverfolk, in fact.’
By the time Bartholomew returned to Newe Inn, Michael had summoned beadles to carry Kente’s body to the nearest church. The physician was obliged to remove some of the artisan’s clothes first, though, to show the nervous pall-bearers that there were no more vipers hidden within. Meanwhile, the hay was wrapped in sacking, and Walkelate gave the order for it to be burned in the garden. Walkelate, Frevill and their colleagues watched the blaze for a while, but soon sought comfort in the familiarity of their work.
‘So what happened?’ asked Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone. ‘I have known others bitten by snakes, and although they were ill afterwards, none died.’
‘Kente was suffering from exhaustion,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Had he been fit and sought immediate help, the bite might not have been fatal.’
Michael shuddered. ‘So what stopped him from summoning assistance? The door was unlocked, and that piece of wood was not wedged in especially tightly. I saw it.’
‘It was easy to dislodge from this side, but it would have been much harder from the other. However, one of the windows was ajar. I suspect he did call for help, but no one heard.’
‘An accident, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Yet another one connected to books?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Meaning you are not sure?’
‘The snake may have emerged from the bale to bite Kente when he inadvertently stepped on it, but it may equally well have been placed there deliberately. There is no way to know. Similarly, there is no way to know whether the wood blocked the door by chance, or whether someone put it there.’
Michael regarded him uneasily, then led the way away from the smouldering hay, along the overgrown path that led to the pond. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’
‘Anyone who wants to see the Common Library fail, I suppose. Or wants to fuel the rumour that repositories for books are perilous places.’
As if to prove his words, Bartholomew overheard Cynric saying this to Meadowman when they approached the pool. The beadle was nodding sagely, agreeing with every word.
‘Meadowman,’ called Michael curtly. ‘Have you finished dredging yet?’
‘Yes, but it was a waste of time, Brother. The pool is extraordinarily deep, as you know – deeper than the height of three men. I did my best, but there was nothing to find.’
‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘You mean it was empty of everything except fish?’
‘I put those back,’ said Meadowman. ‘I wanted to take one home for supper, but Cynric said that Satan might join me at the dinner table if I did, because they belong to him.’
‘They made the riverfolk sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the Batayl scholars.’
‘I told you,’ said Cynric, gratified. ‘There are evil faeries in that water, and they harm anyone who steals their produce.’ He crossed himself, and muttered an incantation to some heathen god.
‘I pulled out plenty of rubbish, of course,’ Meadowman went on. ‘But nothing that will help you understand what happened to the scholars who died here.’
Michael sighed. ‘We had better inspect what you have recovered anyway.’
The beadle pointed to a substantial mound of refuse, reeking and stained with brown mud; flies swarmed hungrily. There were rusted knives, broken pots, half-rotted baskets, countless oyster shells, what appeared to be part of a wooden chest, an ancient helmet, and a large number of animal bones. Michael regarded it all in distaste.
‘So what did that fellow expect to find when we almost laid hold of him here the other night?’
Meadowman shrugged. ‘Treasure? People hid their riches in all sorts of funny places during the Death, and I kept hoping we would discover a hoard.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘The Dunning family has rented Newe Inn to impecunious taverners for years. None had fortunes to conceal.’
‘Personally, I suspect those four scholars were trying to harness the power of demons,’ began Cynric. ‘And—’
‘No,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, wondering whether his own reputation as a warlock owed anything to his association with Cynric. He pointed. ‘When did you haul that large metal pot out?’
‘The witches’ cauldron?’ asked Cynric brightly. ‘Would you like it for your experiments? I can take it back to Michaelhouse and clean it off for you. I am sure it will scrub up beautifully.’
‘I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew quickly, aware of Meadowman’s knowing smirk. ‘But did you find it relatively quickly or later on? In other words, was it near the top of the items you uncovered, or buried deep?’
‘It was almost the first thing I hauled up,’ said Meadowman. ‘Why?’
Bartholomew tapped it with his forceps. It rang melodiously.
‘So Coslaye and the apprentice were right when they said they heard bells,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Can we assume that Northwood and his friends were doing something with this cauldron when they died, then, and it went in the pond at or near the same time that they did?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We have suspected all along that they were conducting alchemical experiments. Moreover, here are jars that almost certainly contained pitch and brimstone – two ingredients used to make lamp fuel.’ Or wildfire, he thought, but did not say. ‘But why here?’
‘That is easy to answer,’ replied Cynric. ‘Because the London brothers lived next door to Weasenham, the town’s biggest gossip; Vale lived in Gonville Hall, but they could not work there, because Rougham would have demanded an explanation—’
‘And Northwood would face similar problems at King’s Hall,’ finished Bartholomew. He glanced around him. ‘Yet it would be easy to work here undisturbed. Of course, it does not explain how they died.’
‘Perhaps they accidentally set themselves alight,’ suggested Meadowman. ‘And flung themselves in the pond to extinguish the flames.’
‘There was no evidence of burning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not on their clothes or their bodies.’
‘Then I was right all along,’ said Cynric with immense satisfaction. ‘They entered a place that belonged to the Devil, and he claimed them for his own.’
The day had turned hot and sultry, and there was not so much as a breath of wind. Michael grumbled bitterly as they walked along the High Street, aiming for the castle and Willelmus.
‘I was not designed for all this racing around,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. ‘And we have missed the midday meal. Of course, that is no great tragedy, given the quality of food at Michaelhouse these days. Even dinner on Trinity Sunday was dismal.’
Mention of College meals reminded Bartholomew of his concerns about his colleagues.
‘Do you think Ayera threw in his lot with the robbers because he wants to save us from debt?’ he asked worriedly. ‘The man who was caught – Ayce – said he and his fellow mercenaries had been very well paid.’
Michael nodded. ‘It is possible. Ayera was deeply disappointed when nothing came from his uncle’s benefaction. Embarrassed, too, after raising our hopes. His family lent him the money to buy the horse he want
s, but the loan will have to be repaid – not easy on a Fellow’s salary.’
‘Then do you think that Langelee learned what Ayera was doing, and agreed to look the other way for a share of his earnings?’
‘Or for a chance to enrol with the robbers himself,’ said Michael soberly. ‘He was a warrior once, and we know from our recent journey to York that he has forgotten none of his brutish skills. Moreover, he takes his duties as Master seriously, and might see this as an opportunity to raise some quick and much-needed cash.’
Bartholomew agreed unhappily. ‘It would certainly explain why he prevented me from asking Ayera any more questions, and why Clippesby has seen them leaving the College at odd hours.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael, his face pale. ‘If Dick Tulyet ever finds out …’
He did not need to finish, because Bartholomew knew exactly the damage it would do. Langelee and Ayera would be obliged to resign – or worse; Tulyet might demand reparation from Michaelhouse that would plunge it even deeper into debt; and the King would be furious to learn that scholars had set greedy eyes on his taxes. The harm caused by such an incident would be vast, and although Bartholomew was generally opposed to concealing unsavoury secrets, this was one he would be more than happy to suppress.
As they approached the Jewry, they saw Weasenham sitting outside his shop. Ruth and Bonabes were just inside the door, she polishing some inkwells and he sharpening quills. Weasenham was watching passers-by with calculating eyes. He turned his head occasionally, to regale his wife and Exemplarius with his observations, but neither were paying him much attention.
‘I hear there have been nine deaths connected with libraries now,’ he called to Bartholomew and Michael as they passed. ‘It seems they are deadly places.’
‘They are nothing of the kind,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘So please do not spread silly tales.’
‘How can you deny it?’ demanded Weasenham. ‘I heard Walkelate telling Chancellor Tynkell about the snake that killed Kente, and the whole affair sounded downright sinister!’
‘You should not have eavesdropped,’ murmured Ruth. ‘It was not decent, especially given that Walkelate was obviously distressed. It was distasteful.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 29
