Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘The discussion took place in my shop,’ said Weasenham indignantly. ‘I have a right to listen to what is said in my own business premises.’

  ‘It was a private conversation,’ said Bonabes quietly. ‘Not intended for our ears.’

  Weasenham turned away impatiently. ‘It seems to me, Brother, that some fiend is at large, dispatching scholars in libraries. You had better catch him, and fast.’

  Michael was about to take issue with him when Riborowe and Jorz arrived with a list of supplies needed for their scriptorium. Weasenham leapt to his feet to see to them personally – the Carmelites were valued customers – although it was obvious that the stationer intended to ply them with his theories at the same time.

  ‘Jorz told me about your snake, Bartholomew,’ whispered Riborowe as he passed. ‘It proves what I have always suspected: that you are a warlock in the pay of Satan.’

  Bartholomew groaned, knowing he would tell Weasenham what had happened by the river, and the tale would be all over the town by nightfall. Bonabes and Ruth emerged from the shop as the scribes entered, ‘accidentally’ brushing each other’s fingers. It was clear they were in love, and Bartholomew was sorry that Weasenham’s disagreeable presence meant they would never be together.

  ‘My husband has decided not to open the shop on Thursday,’ Ruth told the scholars. ‘And I shall bury all our valuables in the garden tomorrow. These horrible raiders are not going to get rich on our hard-earned money.’

  ‘They will not come,’ said Bonabes. He sounded exasperated, as if it was a subject they had discussed before, but could not agree upon. ‘Why would they? They have been repelled once. Besides, the tales that say they plan to attack derive from a baseless story started by Weasenham.’

  ‘I am going to hide the more expensive ingredients we use in our paper-making experiments, too,’ Ruth went on, ignoring him. ‘It is unlikely that thieves will want to tote heavy pots when they leave, but you cannot be too careful, and I should not like to think of some of those compounds in such hands. They can be dangerous.’

  ‘You do not have any rock oil, do you?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘We did,’ replied Bonabes. ‘But when I went to fetch it this morning, it had gone.’

  ‘I suspect the London brothers had it,’ said Ruth. ‘Probably to use when they were with Northwood. If you happen across it during your enquiries, we would not mind it back. It is costly and difficult to obtain.’

  ‘Why did you want it this morning?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

  ‘I was going to give some to Riborowe,’ explained Bonabes. ‘He read somewhere that it has drying properties, and asked if he might have a bit for his ink.’

  ‘But it had gone?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘All of it?’

  Bonabes nodded. ‘Although I suppose it does not really matter. We discovered early on that it is no good for manufacturing paper.’

  ‘I have a terrible feeling that none of this will matter after Thursday,’ said Ruth, like a dog with a bone. ‘The invaders will have razed our town to the ground by then.’

  ‘You seem very sure this attack will happen,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts from wildfire to robbers.

  ‘She is,’ said Bonabes. He smiled fondly at her, to take the sting from his words. ‘But she is wrong. They will not strike again, because they have lost the element of surprise.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.

  He nodded a farewell to them, and fell into step at Michael’s side as they resumed their walk to the castle. Michael was troubled.

  ‘So now we learn that the London brothers stole expensive materials for their experiments and … Blast! Here comes Cynric. Now what? Will we never get to speak to Willelmus?’

  ‘Batayl has just sent word,’ Cynric said. ‘Apparently, Browne is missing. He has been gone since last night, but as he has taken none of his belongings with him, his students fear the worst.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Batayl Hostel had altered dramatically since Bartholomew and Michael had last visited. The vivid mural had been obliterated with a smart wash of white, and the sour smell of feet and burnt fat was overlain by the sweeter scent of rose petals. Bartholomew could only suppose that Holm had supplied his lover Browne with them, as he had supplied Walkelate with a remedy for Newe Inn’s reeking oil.

  ‘Browne made some changes when he declared himself Principal,’ explained Pepin, assuming the role of spokesman in the absence of his seniors. ‘I, for one, was glad to see the painting go.’

  ‘I am sure you were,’ said Michael, looking hard at him. ‘It cannot have been pleasant for you, seeing your countrymen depicted as demons wading through oceans of blood.’

  ‘No, and I often felt like punching Coslaye.’ Pepin flushed when he realised the remark was somewhat incriminating. ‘But I did not kill him. That was someone else – someone who is eager for the Common Library to open, and who was afraid Coslaye might have interfered.’

  ‘Would he have interfered?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Pepin. ‘He planned to smear dung and mortar over Newe Inn’s windows – a combination of materials that will set hard and that would have been difficult to scour off. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was not a man to listen to reason.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Not about the library. And not about the French, either.’

  ‘He hates us,’ said Pepin quietly. ‘Yet there is no need. Poitiers did us irreparable damage, and we are no threat to England now. It shattered our army, dealt our pride a mortal blow, killed the flower of our nobility, and took our King prisoner. We are in chaos, unable to pay the ransoms you have demanded, and our peasants are set to rise up against their masters.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael, a little impatiently. He had not come to debate France’s problems. ‘But let us discuss Browne. I understand he and Holm are … close.’

  ‘Lovers,’ nodded Pepin. ‘We do not mind that – ladies are hard to come by in Cambridge, so a man must take comfort where he can – but we disapprove of Holm. He is devious and conceited, and only made friends with Browne because his cousin knows the King. We hate him.’

  ‘When did you last see Browne?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Last night.’ Pepin gnawed his lip uneasily. ‘And we have a bad feeling about him going missing. All his belongings are here, including Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica, which was his pride and joy. He would not have gone anywhere without taking that with him.’

  ‘A book on sieges and war?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Deynman’s distress over what had been done to Michaelhouse’s copy.

  ‘It was a gift from Holm,’ explained Pepin. ‘I cannot imagine what would have happened when he got married, and thus became unavailable. Perhaps it is better this way.’

  ‘You speak as though you think Browne is dead,’ observed Bartholomew.

  Pepin nodded, and so did his fellow students. ‘We believe Holm killed him, because he was afraid that Julitta would find out about their friendship and cancel the wedding. Holm is desperate to have her money, you see, and will not let anything – not even Browne – stand in his way.’

  ‘I shall instruct my beadles to look for Browne,’ said Michael. ‘And we shall pay a visit to Holm now. Meanwhile, your disputations will be soon, so I recommend that you concentrate on your exemplars today. Stay here, and leave the hunt to me.’

  Pepin nodded acquiescence. ‘As you wish.’

  Michael started to leave, but then paused. ‘My grandmother claims that Angoulême – your birthplace – has a large paper-making industry, but I think she is mistaken. Am I right, or is she?’

  Pepin gave a tight smile. ‘You are, Brother. Angoulême has never produced paper.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ said Michael with a small bow. ‘Thank you.’

  Bartholomew followed him outside, but there was no time to enquire why he had asked Pepin such an odd question, because the monk was already knocking on Holm’s door.

  �
�What do you want?’ the surgeon demanded, answering it himself. ‘I am busy.’

  The fact that his clothes were rumpled, and he was stifling a yawn, suggested his business involved sleeping, even though it was the middle of the day.

  ‘Browne is missing, and his students are worried,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘They think you and he might have had a lovers’ tiff.’

  Holm scowled, then indicated with an irritable flap of his hand that Michael and Bartholomew were to step into his house. Glancing furtively up and down the lane to assess whether anyone else had heard the monk’s remark, he then closed the door.

  Once inside, Bartholomew saw Julitta’s hand everywhere, from the tasteful rugs on the floor, to the cushions on the benches and the way the silver goblets had been arranged on the table. There was even a small library, which he supposed she had assembled for their married life together.

  ‘Browne and I are not lovers,’ the surgeon said, walking to the table and pouring himself some wine. He did not offer any to his guests. ‘The Batayl lads have never liked me, and they fabricated that vile accusation to show me in a bad light.’

  ‘It is not just Batayl,’ said Michael. ‘We have heard it from others, too. Indeed, half the town seems to know you prefer Browne to your hapless fiancée.’

  Holm’s expression hardened. ‘Well, perhaps I do, although I shall take legal action against anyone who tells her so before we are married.’

  ‘When did you last see Browne?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to mask his distaste.

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ replied Holm icily. ‘However, the louts of Batayl were with him long after I had made my farewells, so do not look to me as the last man who saw him alive.’

  ‘Now you seem convinced he is dead,’ said Michael.

  Holm shrugged. ‘He was not popular with his students, so it stands to reason. They are a vicious horde, and I imagine they are responsible for braining Coslaye, too.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to say that?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yes – the evidence of common sense.’

  ‘Browne was your lover, yet you do not seem upset by his disappearance,’ mused Michael. ‘Why not? Because you know he is alive, so grieving is unnecessary? Or because you have experienced a cooling of affection for each other?’

  ‘Neither. I am devastated, actually, but my father taught me never to show needless emotions. He said it is unbecoming in a medical man.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful as they left the surgeon’s cottage. ‘Do you think he has dispatched Browne, perhaps because Browne learned some of his sinister secrets?’

  ‘What sinister secrets?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say his preference for men, because I doubt Browne sees that as a crime, given that he is like-minded.’

  ‘What about his greedy determination to have Julitta’s dowry?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or the fact that he sided with the French at Poitiers? Or his lies, hollow boasts and cowardice?’

  Michael laughed. ‘They are not secrets! Besides, there is nothing to say Browne is dead. Or that Holm killed him. And anyway, if I had to choose a suspect, it would be Pepin.’

  ‘Pepin might have murdered Coslaye, but he has no reason to harm Browne. Browne shared his distaste for Coslaye’s fascination with Poitiers.’

  ‘And what if Pepin did kill Coslaye, and Browne found out?’ asked Michael. ‘That is a motive for murder. Moreover, Pepin’s determination to have Holm implicated in Browne’s disappearance is suspicious. Then there is the fact that I tripped him up with my question about Angoulême, which does produce paper, and has done for years; my grandmother waxed lyrical about it the other night. If he does not know this simple fact, then he is lying about his origins.’

  ‘I suspect that is because he actually hails from Poitiers,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged when the monk regarded him in surprise. ‘I might lie, too, were I a Poitevin living in England, and I imagine he did turn out for the battle. He looks more like a warrior than a scholar.’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Michael. ‘But how do you know he comes from Poitiers?’

  ‘Because of the name he gave the stew that made everyone ill: tout marron. It is called tout brun everywhere but Poitiers. I cannot imagine why he did not abandon Batayl and enrol with a Principal who is less rabidly anti-French.’

  ‘That is easier said than done,’ explained Michael. ‘Students pay fees, and no hostel wants to lose those, so moving between foundations is strongly discouraged. Of course, Pepin is not the only candidate for dispatching Browne. Julitta has a powerful reason to dislike the fellow, too: no wife wants a manly lover waiting in the wings.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. ‘That is a terrible thing to say!’

  ‘And people do terrible things, as we have learned in the past. Especially, it would seem, ones with angelic faces and kindly dispositions.’

  ‘But Julitta is—’

  ‘Julitta is about to marry a man she adores, but she is no fool, and may well know about his preferences. Browne’s demise can only benefit her, and if your befuddled emotions would let you view the situation objectively, you would agree with me.’

  ‘Killing Browne will not resolve anything – Holm will still be attracted to men. She is not stupid, Brother; she will understand that.’

  Michael regarded him critically. ‘It seems to me that love blinds even the sanest of people to reason.’

  ‘I do not love her,’ Bartholomew snapped. ‘There is still Matilde …’

  ‘Is there? When was the last time you thought about her?’

  Bartholomew was chagrined to feel colour rise into his cheeks. ‘I have not had time to think of anything except my teaching and your investigation for days,’ he replied stiffly.

  Prudently, Michael changed the subject to their students’ upcoming disputations, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He did not want anyone to know the full extent of the affection he was beginning to feel for a woman who was shortly to become another man’s wife.

  Tulyet’s hopeful smile quickly faded when he heard that Bartholomew and Michael had not come to the castle because they had something useful to report about the raiders.

  ‘Only more of the same,’ said Michael apologetically. ‘That they will come at Corpus Christi.’

  ‘I called a meeting in the Guild Hall earlier,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘To urge the burgesses to cancel the pageant. But a lot of money has been invested in it, so they voted to ignore me.’

  ‘Money for what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

  ‘For the cakes that have been baked, the ale that has been brewed, the performers who have been hired. Calling it off now will mean heavy financial losses. But perhaps my fears are unfounded. The raiders may not come when they learn the taxes are no longer in the Great Tower, and so will not be easy to find.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, there is a tale that they are now hidden in the University. The castle may be safe, but we must expect to be ravaged.’

  ‘You will not be,’ said Tulyet confidently. ‘Not even the most determined thief could consider searching eight Colleges, forty hostels and half a dozen convents.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him horror as understanding dawned. ‘It was you! You started this rumour, to dissuade the robbers from coming!’

  ‘Steady on, Matt!’ breathed Michael, shocked. ‘That is a nasty accusation.’

  But Tulyet’s expression was sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned something to Weasenham …’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘You did what?’

  ‘Who seized your idle musings and turned them into rumour,’ finished Bartholomew.

  Michael continued to gape. ‘No, Dick! I cannot believe you would do something so recklessly irresponsible!’

  ‘What is irresponsible about using all the means at my disposal to avert trouble?’ asked Tulyet defensively, although he would not meet Michael’s eyes.

  ‘Well, for a start, there is the very strong possibility that your ruse will work, and th
at the University will bear the brunt of these marauders’ attentions,’ snapped Michael, anger taking the place of disbelief. ‘How could you? It is not—’

  ‘Is the money still here, in the castle?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to prevent a spat. Having the Sheriff and Senior Proctor at loggerheads would be disastrous at such a time.

  ‘Locked in the Great Tower.’ Then Tulyet’s defiant glare faded. ‘But with hindsight, I see that I should not have acted without consulting you, Brother. I am sorry.’

  ‘We came to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael gird himself up to reject the apology. But while Tulyet was certainly in the wrong, nothing would be gained from remonstrating with him further. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘May I ask why?’ asked Tulyet.

  ‘Just an avenue of enquiry,’ replied Michael coldly. ‘If it leads anywhere, you will be the first to know. I shall not exclude you from anything important.’

  Tulyet inclined his head rather stiffly, and pointed to the Great Tower. Michael fumed as he and Bartholomew crossed the bailey towards it.

  ‘How dare he put us at risk! What was he thinking?’

  ‘That it was a way to avert trouble,’ said Bartholomew calmly. ‘Do not quarrel—’

  ‘I understand the importance of good relations in a time of crisis, even if he does not,’ hissed Michael. ‘But what he has done is unforgivable. How can I ever trust him again?’

  ‘He has barely slept since the attack, and the deaths of his men hit him very hard. He made an error of judgement, which he had the grace to acknowledge. I doubt it will happen again.’

  Michael scowled. ‘It had better not!’

  Willelmus was working on a document when Bartholomew and Michael arrived, leaning close to the text as he strained to see. He glanced up when the visitors were shown in, his milky eyes squinting in an effort to identify them. Still angry with the Sheriff and eager to vent his spleen, Michael homed in on him like a hawk after a rabbit.

  ‘You were seen talking to one of the raiders during the attack,’ he began curtly. ‘Why?’