‘Browne was lying,’ said Walkelate, regarding the body with a mixture of anger and distress. ‘He denied killing Northwood and the others, but I wager you anything you like that he did poison them as they experimented.’
Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you say they were poisoned? We have not mentioned that theory to anyone else.’
‘Other than Julitta, apparently,’ muttered Michael. ‘And possibly Ayera.’
Walkelate shrugged. ‘Four men do not die of natural causes all at once, and Dunning told me that you found no signs of violence on their bodies. What else is left but poison?’
‘Everyone else seems to believe that God or the Devil is responsible.’ Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet Clippesby and Riborowe said those four dead men met here on a regular basis, and it is unlikely that they could have done it every time without you noticing. You spend all your time here, after all. And the answer is that you were experimenting with them!’
‘Steady on, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘You cannot accuse everyone of—’
‘But I was not with them the night they died,’ cried Walkelate. ‘How could I have been? I would have been poisoned, too. I was in here with my artisans, listening to the singers that Holm hired as we polished the shelves.’
Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘But that answer implies you joined them on other occasions! Why did you not mention it sooner? We have been desperate for clues about their deaths, and your testimony might have helped.’
Walkelate hung his head. ‘I did not dare, Brother. I was afraid you would stop me working on the library if I admitted to sharing their passion for invention. But I was going to confess tonight, when this place is open and nothing else will matter.’
‘So tell me now,’ said Michael angrily. ‘What were you doing? Making lamp fuel?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Walkelate. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew, I know you are working to that end, too, but I did it to raise money for the library. Vale said that whoever discovers clean-burning fuel will be rich, and Northwood invited me to join their team when I caught them in the garden one night.’
‘Why did he invite you?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.
‘Because I was able to make several useful suggestions,’ explained Walkelate. ‘Such as adding rock oil and red lead. He said my extensive knowledge of alchemy was invaluable.’
Michael scrubbed tiredly at his face. ‘We shall discuss this later, when you do not have bookcases to repair, and I do not have a “cataclysmic” raid and rebellious scholars to worry about.’
‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Walkelate gratefully. ‘I shall go to round up my artisans at once, and see what can be done to disguise Browne’s handiwork.’
While the architect disappeared about his business, Michael and Bartholomew carried Browne to the street, where the monk ordered three passing beadles to take the body to St Boltoph’s. The physician half listened to Michael telling his men what Browne had overheard, and let his mind wander to an image of Northwood, the London brothers and Vale conducting their experiments in the overgrown garden, and of Walkelate helping with new ideas. Then he thought about the substances Walkelate had recommended, and tendrils of unease began to writhe in his stomach.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed, as understanding came crashing into his mind. ‘They were not making lamp fuel – you do not need red lead and rock oil for that. They were concocting something else.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘I am too tired and fraught for—’
‘Wildfire! Rock oil is what makes wildfire sticky and unquenchable.’
‘I sincerely doubt Walkelate and the others were making that! They—’
But Bartholomew’s mind was racing. ‘Northwood would have been interested only from an alchemical standpoint, but Vale liked money. And now we have Walkelate, eager to raise funds for his library. Of course, there are other clues that prove they were dabbling with weapons …’
‘There are?’ asked Michael warily.
‘Warden Shropham told us that Walkelate is the son of the King’s sergeant-at-arms, and such men will certainly receive military training in their youth.’
‘So did I, but it does not make me a candidate for inventing incendiary devices.’
‘The ingredients for lamp fuel must not be expensive,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘If they are, the invention will be useless, because no one will be able to afford to buy any. But military commanders rarely baulk at the cost of materials for weapons.’
‘So? I do not understand your point.’
‘The compounds Northwood was using were expensive, because he was stealing exemplar money to pay for them – Ruth told us.’
‘We did not find money in his cell,’ conceded Michael. ‘So it clearly was spent. But Walkelate just said Browne was lying – that our villainous Batayl man poisoned Northwood and his cronies. Why would Walkelate—’
‘To prevent you from seeing the truth, of course! And maybe it was he, not the raiders, who demanded the formula from Rougham and me. He probably recruited others to help him waylay us. Such as Holm – he is greedy and ruthless.’
‘Matt!’ cried Michael. ‘You are allowing dislike to interfere with your reason. Calm down and—’
‘I am perfectly calm! And if we dither over this, blood will be spilled.’
‘It will be spilled if we go adrift with erroneous assumptions,’ Michael shot back. ‘But if you are right, and Walkelate and his cronies were striving to invent something sinister, they would not have chosen Holm to assist them. They would have picked Gyseburne – a man fascinated with urine, which is combustible.’
‘No, it is Holm. He is Walkelate’s friend, who provides him with remedies to rid the library of unwanted smells.’ More solutions cracked clear in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘And if they were making wildfire, they will have used some very dangerous materials as well as expensive ones – such as red lead. They were poisoned, but they did it to themselves!’
Michael regarded him dubiously. ‘Then why did Vale have an arrow in his back?’
Bartholomew thought quickly. ‘Because when Walkelate tried to conceal the bodies by dumping them in the pond, Vale got caught on that platform. The others would have surfaced eventually, because of gases, but Walkelate probably does not know that. He must have shot the arrow in an effort to haul Vale free, and—’
‘That seems excessive,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘Why not just wade in and grab him?’
‘Impossible – the water is too deep. And perhaps he was in a hurry, because he was short of time – Browne often went fishing in the mornings. Or more likely, he did not want to immerse himself in toxic water.’
‘How would he know it was toxic?’
‘I think they dumped their failed experiments in it. It would certainly explain why I was ill after falling in, why your beadles felt unwell after dredging for bodies, and why the riverfolk and Batayl were sick after eating its fish. There is Agatha’s testimony, too.’
‘What testimony?’
‘She said the pond emits bad smells on certain nights – doubtless when Northwood and his helpmeets worked, producing stenches that people noticed. Cynric remarked on it, too. Red lead releases toxic fumes when it is heated. And the bowl that Meadowman dredged up – the one that rang like a bell – suggests the experimenters were boiling their concoctions …’
‘Could red lead in a basin that size produce enough fumes to kill four men?’
‘Yes. It is a pity anatomy is forbidden, because had I looked inside the bodies, we would have had answers days ago.’
‘No,’ said Michael, after reflecting for a moment. ‘Walkelate would not have tried to conceal what was essentially an accident. He would have reported it.’
‘And risked trouble for his beloved library? I think not!’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘As we have no better way forward, we shall explore your theory. The first step is to find Walkelate. I seriously doubt he would crea
te wildfire to secure future funding for his library, but I will never sleep easy again if I am wrong and he sells it to the robbers.’
‘I hope we are not too late,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because I have an awful feeling it might feature in Browne’s “cataclysmic” event.’
CHAPTER 12
The residents of Cambridge were already up and about, many dressed in their best clothes. There was an atmosphere of excited anticipation, for the previous night’s rout had been hailed a success, and people were confident that the raiders would never dare return. Edith waved cheerfully to Bartholomew as she and her husband removed the boards that had covered their windows, while the head of the Frevill clan was ushering his family back into their home.
‘We received word during the night that the town had bloodied the robbers’ noses,’ said Edith, as Bartholomew skidded to a standstill. ‘So we decided to return.’
He was dismayed. ‘But one of our scholars heard the raiders talking, and they plan to strike again today. The danger is far from over!’
Stanmore waved a dismissive hand, and nodded that his wife should begin decorating the windowsills while he dealt with her agitated brother.
‘He probably heard that before we taught them a lesson in the High Street,’ he said with quiet reason. ‘They will not try a third time. They are not stupid, and will know when they are defeated.’
‘But they have not stolen the tax money yet,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They will not give up so easily when they have invested so much. Moreover, I think they intend to unleash a—’
‘Enough!’ said Stanmore sharply. He lowered his voice, so Edith would not hear. ‘It has been a dismal winter, and this is the first opportunity we have had to enjoy ourselves in months. Do not spoil it with your alarmist notions. There will be no raid today.’
There was no point arguing with such firmly held convictions. With one last, agonised glance at his sister, Bartholomew ran after Michael, who was aiming for King’s Hall in the hope that Walkelate’s colleagues would know where the architect was.
‘Walkelate is not here,’ said Shropham, when they were shown into his office. ‘He has been out all night, but we expected that – he is determined to have his library perfect for today.’
‘Where else might he be?’ demanded Michael.
‘There is nowhere else. The library has been his consuming passion these past few weeks. Of course, there is also his other obsession …’
‘What other obsession?’
‘He is fascinated with artillery and siege warfare, an interest that began at more or less the same time as that beggar was murdered – the one whose throat was cut.’
‘You think he is connected to the invaders?’ asked Michael, struggling to understand what he was being told.
‘Of course not.’ But the Warden’s eyes were uneasy. ‘Yet he has strong opinions …’
‘Shropham!’ shouted Michael in exasperation. ‘Please! We have told you why we need to find him, so do not make this more difficult. Or do you want King’s Hall blamed for whatever happens?’
‘No!’ Shropham was in an agony of conflicting loyalties. ‘Yet I fear Walkelate has done something terrible. About two months ago, he performed a lot of experiments that involved explosions and I had to order him to desist, because he was disturbing our students. I was relieved when the library began to take up more of his time, as I thought it would distract him …’
‘Did he work alone, or with others?’ asked Michael.
‘With Northwood and the Londons,’ replied Shropham. ‘And Vale the physician, too, I believe. They were also interested in alchemy.’
‘Walkelate lied,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, although the monk did not need to be told. ‘He did not stumble across Northwood and the others in Newe Inn – he took them there when King’s Hall became unavailable. Clippesby and Riborowe said they could not identify everyone who assembled in Cholles Lane before slipping into the garden. One of them must have been Walkelate.’
‘Hovering there with a key to let them in,’ finished Michael.
‘I think he has designed a new weapon,’ blurted Shropham. His face was ashen. ‘There were diagrams in his room … I was a soldier myself once, and his pictures look like modified ribauldequins to me. He spent hours discussing such devices with Holm and Riborowe, who were at Poitiers.’
Something dreadful occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he might have conceived one that can discharge wildfire? As matters stand, the stuff is not very easy to deploy, but if he has devised a contraption that can propel it into the ranks of the enemy …’
Shropham would not meet his eyes. ‘That is exactly what it looked like to me. But I am not too concerned, because no one knows the recipe for wildfire any more. It has been lost, thank God.’
‘The discharge of wildfire from a ribauldequin would certainly be cataclysmic,’ said Michael, exchanging an appalled glance with Bartholomew.
‘There is one more thing.’ Shropham’s expression was one of inner torment: it pained him to tell tales on a colleague. ‘I happened to glance in his room this morning. The drawings have gone.’
‘Why did you not tell us this immediately?’ demanded Michael, horrified.
‘Why would I? Sketching weapons is not illegal, and he has not actually done anything wrong.’
But Shropham did not look convinced by his own argument, and neither were Bartholomew and Michael. Without further ado, they left King’s Hall and hurried into the High Street, feeling that time was slipping inexorably away.
‘Walkelate has not gone to muster his artisans,’ said Bartholomew in despair. ‘He has gone to consort with the robbers – to give them what he has invented. Assuming he has not done so already.’
‘No,’ said Michael, albeit uncertainly. ‘There is nothing to connect him to them.’
‘Yes, there is. Browne heard the raiders talking in Cholles Lane – the place where Walkelate’s helpmeets assembled before they went to experiment. That cannot be a coincidence. Besides, why else would he have taken his diagrams?’
‘Even if you are right, drawings are not the same as an actual device,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He can sell his theory, but he cannot sell the weapon itself.’
‘Dick Tulyet has a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘I saw it at the castle. Walkelate was one of several scholars who helped him design it.’
‘Then we need not worry,’ said Michael in relief. ‘If it is in the castle, then the invaders do not have it. And if a ribauldequin is the only way wildfire can be deployed, then they are foiled.’
‘It is stored in the chapel now, but it was in the Great Tower.’ Bartholomew’s thoughts were racing. ‘I suggested that the robbers might have wanted it, but Dick said no.’
‘He may be right, Matt – such a device would not be easy to whisk away in a lightning raid. But forget it for now: we need to concentrate on Walkelate. I doubt he has gone to the Fens, because if he is involved with the robbers, he will know that they are coming here. He will have gone to one of his surviving accomplices. And not Holm, before you say it.’
‘Riborowe has an unhealthy interest in artillery.’ Bartholomew jabbed a finger. ‘And there he is now, slinking along in a manner that is distinctly furtive!’
Riborowe broke into a run when he saw Bartholomew and Michael bearing down on him, his skeletal legs pumping furiously as he tore towards his friary. He moved fast, and had reached St Mary the Great before Bartholomew managed to bring him down with a flying tackle. He struggled, spat and scratched furiously until Michael arrived to help secure him.
‘Walkelate,’ growled the monk, seizing him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Where is he?’
‘I have no idea,’ snapped Riborowe. ‘But if you think to accuse me of helping Northwood cheat the friary over those exemplars, then you have the wrong man. It was Jorz. He was the one who told Northwood how many to expect, and which ones could be declared inferior. He confessed it to me the night he died. He, N
orthwood and Walkelate were experimenting together.’
‘Then why did you not tell me immediately?’ demanded Michael angrily.
‘Because I am frightened of him,’ shouted Riborowe, jabbing a bony finger at Bartholomew. ‘It was unnerving when he appeared so soon after we discovered Jorz’s corpse, especially given that Jorz had seen him releasing Satan’s familiar by the river.’
Michael grimaced his exasperation. ‘Tell me about Walkelate and his love of weapons.’
‘Why do you—’ Riborowe saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face and began to gabble. ‘He is especially interested in ribauldequins, and we worked together on the one the Sheriff built for the King. He imposed some peculiar modifications, although he declined to tell me why. He made a second one, too, but I do not know where he keeps it.’
‘A second one?’ cried Bartholomew in dismay. He turned to Michael. ‘Supposing the raiders already have it?’
Michael regarded the Carmelite in distaste. ‘And you accuse Matt of dealing with the Devil! He cures people, while you devise ways to kill them.’
‘I am not the only one,’ bleated Riborowe. ‘Northwood was interested in artillery, too. He pretended to find it shocking, and refused to help the Sheriff, but in reality he was fascinated by it.’
‘Tell me about the second ribauldequin,’ ordered Michael. ‘How is it different from Tulyet’s?’
‘I do not know. Walkelate and Northwood never let me see the final result.’ Riborowe freed himself from the monk’s grasp and backed away. ‘I am going to leave Cambridge today. It is too full of men with alarming ideas. I shall join a convent in another town – one without mad experimenters and Corpse Examiners running riot.’
‘Hypocrite!’ spat Michael, watching him scuttle away. ‘He knows he has contributed to something terrible, but is not man enough to admit it.’
‘Why are you letting him go?’ asked Bartholomew, agitated and unhappy. ‘He is our only lead to Walkelate.’
‘He does not know where Walkelate is, or what his plans are. Walkelate has been using him, pumping him for technical information while telling him nothing in return. And I suspect Walkelate did the same with Jorz, Northwood, Vale and the London brothers.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 36
