A Trail of Ink (20 page)

As for myself, I thought to get my feet wet, walking the path by the Cherwell with Kate. The banns had been read twice now from St Peter’s Church. Once more, two days hence, and we might wed. I was eager for that day, and might have thought to hasten it by continuing a search for books and thieves. But Kate’s company was a strong lure. I yielded to her attraction and set out for Holywell Street. It was well I did so, else finding Master John’s books might have taken longer. Indeed, I might not have found them yet. Was it Kate who drew me to Holywell Street and the path along the Cherwell, or was it a push from the Lord Christ?

Robert Caxton smiled as I entered his shop and called to Kate, who was employed again in the workroom. I wonder that he could smile at a man who was about to take daughter and assistant from him, and cost him the income from a house as well. Mayhap he remembered days past, when he courted Kate’s mother. A man must find it difficult to view his daughter so, as from another, younger man’s eyes. Perhaps the same sentiment will comfort me twenty years hence.

I was correct about damp feet, although Kate seemed not to mind. The grass was wet with the morning’s mist and soaked our shoes, already muddy from Oxford’s streets. I was engrossed in Kate and our conversation so did not notice the clot of black gowns before us on the river bank until we were nearly upon them. Four youths gazed at something in the river, taking no heed of our approach. It was a normal reaction to peer also into the river, to learn what held their attention. It was a corpse.

A body floated face down but a short way from the river bank. It was prevented from following the current downstream by a leg entangled in a branch broken from some upstream tree which had lodged against the bank. Water weeds waved in the gentle current ‘round the dead man’s head, like unshorn green locks.

The four who stood studying the corpse were young scholars. They babbled excitedly among themselves but took no measures to draw the unfortunate fellow from the water. My feet were already wet, and the corpse lay in water barely knee deep. I gave my coat to Kate, drew off my shoes, pushed my way past the students, and waded into the Cherwell. In a few moments I freed the lifeless form from the broken bough and hauled the corpse upon the river bank.

I do not recommend wading in the Cherwell in November. Although I had only gone into the water to my knees, I was chilled and shivering when I dragged my burden to the path. While I resumed my coat two of the young scholars turned the drowned man to his back. There was silence for a moment, then one exclaimed, “‘Tis Robert.”

Robert is a common name. My future father-in-law bears it. So I did not consider that the drowned man I had pulled from the Cherwell might be Robert Salley even though the youth had gone missing.

I turned while donning my coat to view the pale, bloated face which now gazed whitely at the sky. It was indeed Robert Salley. I recognized his tattered gown, now soaked and clinging to his spare frame, and the sparse whiskers which ornamented his chin.

I saw another thing as well. I knelt beside the corpse for a closer look at the dead scholar. A faint purple bruise, nearly invisible, circled his neck.

Kate and the four who had discovered Salley in the river followed my gaze. Kate saw where my eyes fell and spoke first. “What has caused such a mark?” she whispered.

“Thick fingers, pressed tight, would make such a bruise.”

“Fingers?” one of the scholars exclaimed. “But surely Robert has drowned… he was in the river.”

“He may be drowned,” I agreed. “There is a way to tell.”

“How so?” the youth asked.

“If his lungs are filled with water, he drowned. But if his lungs are not full of water, he died before he went into the river.”

“How can this be known?”

“We will lift him by his feet. If water pours from his lips, he died in the river. If no water, or very little comes forth, he died upon land.”

I motioned to a scholar to take one sodden leg, and I grasped the other. Together we lifted Robert Salley until his corpse was near vertical. Kate held her hand to her lips as we all watched the dead man’s mouth. Little water came from the waxen lips; perhaps a drop or two.

“What does this mean?” another of the students asked when we had dropped poor Salley to the river bank.

“It means,” I replied, “that he was murdered. Strangled, then placed in the Cherwell so that, was he found dead, all would assume he was drowned.”

“We must send for the sheriff,” another said.

I agreed. Two of the scholars set off for the castle while Kate, I, and the other two kept watch over the mortal remains of Robert Salley. I wondered if, in the depths of the Cherwell, ink might be soaking from Master John’s Sentences.

Our place on the banks of the Cherwell was across the town from the castle. It was half an hour and more before I saw the scholars return, followed by two sergeants. These officers had surely been chosen for brawn, not wit. They studied the corpse, debated calling the hue and cry, poked poor Robert in the ribs with a toe as if he might be roused from slumber, then cast about for evidence that a crime might have been committed.

It was with some difficulty that I convinced them that this was so. Their lives would be simplified was Salley’s death but mischance. Scholars have perished in Oxford rivers before, usually when drunk, falling from bridges or river banks. The sergeants, after much persuading, reluctantly agreed that the indistinct purple bruise about Salley’s neck suggested strangulation.

One sergeant left us to seek castle servants and a litter, the other remained to watch the corpse. He made no effort to question me or the four students. So far as he was concerned Salley was but another penniless youth, come to Oxford, far from home, who had the misfortune to die unknown and unmourned. He would be buried on the morrow in a pauper’s grave in his parish churchyard.

I was not satisfied with this conclusion to Salley’s brief life. There was much coincidence in the matter. A youth who possessed and wished to sell a stolen book is found strangled in the river. This same scholar was sought by Sir Simon Trillowe for reasons I knew not. Might these events be tied? If so, it was no neat bundle.

The sheriff’s man showed no curiosity about the corpse at his feet. He chewed upon a fingernail and stared impassively across the water meadow toward the spire of St Frideswide’s Priory Church.

The four young scholars began to drift away in a knot toward the East Bridge. I drew Kate after me and caught up with them.

“You recognized the dead man,” I reminded them. “Did he make enemies readily?”

“Nay,” one replied. “Was a quiet fellow, was Robert.”

“How did you know of him?”

“He was of Balliol College, like us. But not this term.”

“Not this term?”

“Robert had little coin. No patron, and his parents both dead of plague when he was but a babe.”

“An orphan? Who took him in? Did he speak of this?”

“Aye, a lay brother at the abbey was cousin to his mother.”

“The abbey? What abbey is that?”

“Salley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire.”

I knew of this abbey. It is but a few miles from Clitheroe. Salley Abbey is a Cistercian House, and by repute is not wealthy, being found on poor, undrained land beside the river Ribble. A lay brother there would have few resources to spare for an orphan lad. But the abbey would provide an education for a boy who showed a quick wit. So Robert Salley had gained enough education to admit him to Balliol College, but had not the means to keep him there.

“You are of Balliol College also?” I asked.

“Aye, like I said.”

“As was I,” I told them. “Some years past, now.”

The four youthful scholars peered at me, at my warm fur coat, and at my comely companion, then exchanged glances which seemed to say, “Perhaps much study is of value.”

“Robert had made no enemies?”

“He was not one to best another in dispute,” one remarked. “Quiet, like.”

“Not likely some felon killed him for his purse,” another added. “No reason to murder someone like Robert.”

“Did you see him frequently? Was he much about in the past few days?”

The four scholars were silent for a moment, then one spoke. “Haven’t seen ‘im for three, four days. Doesn’t live with us now. Did, once, but took cheaper lodgings at some tavern over near St Ebbe’s Church.”

“When you last saw him did he seek your aid? Was he troubled?”

Three of the black-gowned youths shrugged and peered at the other, who had reported seeing Salley earlier in the week.

“Owed me four pence. Said as he’d have it for me soon. Didn’t seem troubled; seemed content. I’ll not see my loan repaid now.”

“And this was four days past?”

“Aye… Monday.”

This news was of interest. Robert Salley thought on Monday he might soon come in to money; from the sale of Master John’s book, I had no doubt.

“Did Salley own many books?” I asked.

“Nay,” they chorused, and laughed grimly, as one. “Had to borrow or rent when a book was needed.”

“I wonder how he thought to come by money to pay a debt? Did he say aught about that? Perhaps he received the coins and another knew of his gain and murdered him for it.”

The four exchanged glances, then the youth who last saw Salley replied. “Didn’t say where he was to find the money. Strange you should speak of books. He did ask if I knew of any who might wish to buy Lombard’s work, Sentences. Didn’t think he sought a buyer for himself. How could he afford such a work? Thought he asked for another.”

As we spoke the sergeant returned with two castle servants and a litter. We watched silently as Robert Salley was rolled onto the frame and carried off toward the East Bridge and the High Street. The servants dealt roughly with the corpse, but Robert Salley would mind little.

I was wet from knees down and chilled, and wished to return to Canterbury Hall and seek dry chances. But there was more to learn this day.

“Salley wished to find a buyer for Sentences, you say? Where did he keep this book?”

“At his lodgings, I suppose. Didn’t say.”

I decided to be frank with these Balliol scholars. “It was not found there. It was a book stolen from Master John Wyclif many weeks past.”

“Master Wyclif’s book?” one exclaimed. “How would Robert come by that? He was no thief.”

“A man hungry enough might become what he was not,” another of the scholars suggested softly. “You are sure,” he continued, “that this was Master Wyclif’s book that Robert wished to sell?”

“Aye. I saw the book when Salley tried to sell it to a stationer on the Holywell Street. It is Master Wyclif’s book, there can be no doubt. I saw Master John’s mark by a note he made on a page.”

The scholars peered at one another with furrowed brows. “We’ve heard of Master Wyclif’s loss,” one said. “Twenty books stolen, ‘tis said.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Did Robert take them,” another puzzled, “why did he seek to sell but one?”

“And where are the others?”

“There are no books where he lodges,” I told them. “I found the place… a tavern on Little Bailey Street. Salley eluded me when I sought him there. Had I caught him, he might yet be alive. Master Wyclif has commissioned me to seek his books. I searched the place where Salley slept. There were no books there.”

“And little else, I’d wager,” a scholar remarked through pursed lips.

“Aye. A bed, a table, a bench, and a small chest with little in it. Did Salley have other friends where he might have left the book ‘til he found a buyer?”

The young scholars exchanged glances again, this time with a wary cast to their eyes. I had asked a tender question. I did not press the matter, but waited until one might find his voice and explain. This did not happen readily. I was about to speak again when one found his tongue.

“Robert has… had… kin nearby. Not as he ever won much aid from him. Couldn’t, really, as monks are to own nothing.”

“A monk, in a house near Oxford?”

“Aye. Another cousin to his mother, Robert said.”

“Which house is it?”

“Eynsham.”

“Did Robert travel there often?”

“At first. But not much in the last year. Got nothing when he did seek his cousin, so gave up, I think.”

“Did he name this monk?”

“May have. Don’t remember.” The speaker peered at his companions. They all shook their heads to acknowledge ignorance, but one finally spoke.

“He was from Longridge, or some such place. Robert said as ‘twas not far from Salley and the abbey. He’s librarian at Eynsham Abbey.”

Unless another monk from Longridge had place at Eynsham Abbey, Robert Salley was cousin to Michael Longridge. My assumptions regarding the monk were in tatters. If he hired the carters to transport Master John’s stolen books to Westminster, how did Robert Salley come by one of them? Perhaps Longridge took pity on his impoverished relative and gave him a book, knowing well he would sell it to feed himself.

If such a thing occurred it showed a lack of thought on the monk’s part. A stolen book offered for sale in Oxford must soon be identified. Perhaps Longridge had, after all, nothing to do with Master John’s missing books. Perhaps he sent books to Westminster in sale or simple exchange, one abbey to another. Perhaps Robert Salley was in league with other penniless scholars. Perhaps with others who knew the worth of Master John’s books, he conspired to steal, then sell the volumes. Perhaps the other missing books were with Salley’s companions in mischief. There were too many “perhapses” to the business.

I had no more questions for the scholars. What use were more questions when I found no answers for the questions already asked? Kate took my arm and we walked north to the East Bridge. The youths watched us depart enviously. Their wistful expressions caused me to stride with head high and shoulders back. Pride is a sin, but it is difficult to walk with Kate and remain humble.