Murder by the Book (15 page)

‘How?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with the remark.

Rougham scowled. ‘I strongly suspect he was working on lamp fuel.’

‘Lamp fuel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean he was in competition with us?’

‘Yes!’ growled Rougham. ‘And whoever discovers a compound that emits clear, bright, steady light will be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. When Northwood had wind of our experiments, he asked to join us, but Holm and I refused. He was livid, so I suspect he decided to conduct tests of his own, enlisting the London brothers to help.’

‘And Vale?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he enlist Vale, too?’

Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Vale would not have joined forces with him willingly.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That the other three coerced him?’

For a moment, it seemed Rougham would not reply, but then he said, ‘Vale had a lady friend, and liked to frolic with her on occasion. Northwood saw him once, and threatened to tell.’

‘Northwood was blackmailing him?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘That is your prerogative,’ said Rougham pompously. ‘However, Vale told me himself.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically, thinking that Vale had not been a man to confess to shortcomings, especially to someone like Rougham, who would be judgemental.

‘It happened after the Convocation of Regents where we voted on the Common Library. You see, I specifically told all my Fellows to oppose the grace, and was outraged when Vale disobeyed. I demanded an explanation, and that was the one he gave – that Northwood had forced him to support it. It is not such great leap of logic to assume that Northwood bullied him into other things, too.’

‘Blackmail is a serious allegation to make against a senior member of the Carmelite Order,’ said Michael warningly.

Rougham nodded. ‘Yes, but it is true, nonetheless.’

‘Was Vale sufficiently distressed about the situation to harm himself?’ asked Michael.

Rougham released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Vale? Do not be ridiculous! He considered himself far too indispensable to consider anything of that nature.’

It was not a pleasant remark to make about a colleague, but Bartholomew was inclined to concur. Vale had held a highly inflated opinion of himself.

‘What is the name of Vale’s lady?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you not advise him to give her up if the relationship was going to lead to him being forced into acting against his will?’

‘I did suggest he transfer his affections elsewhere,’ replied Rougham. ‘But he declared himself to be in love. And the lady’s name is Ruth Weasenham.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘I would have thought her too respectable for extra-marital dalliances.’

‘So would I, but can you blame her? Weasenham is hardly a man to satisfy a woman’s dreams, and his last spouse wandered from the wedding bed, too, as I recall. I imagine the poor lasses do it to retain their sanity, because he cannot make for pleasing company.’

‘Ruth was distressed by the news of Vale’s death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I saw her eyes fill with tears when we mentioned him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But she was upset by Adam’s death, too, and the London brothers’. She is just a gentle lady with a kind heart, and I am not sure I believe this tale.’

‘Perhaps we should start a rumour about it,’ said
Rougham speculatively. ‘Weasenham is a gossip, and it would be poetic justice for him to be the subject of an embarrassing story.’

‘But that would hurt Ruth,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how she had rallied to his defence when Weasenham had accused him of being a warlock. ‘Please do not.’

Rougham sniffed. ‘Very well, although only as a personal favour to you – Weasenham does deserve to be taught a lesson. Of course, you are wasting your time investigating these deaths.’

‘We are?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because it is clear what happened: God did not like what Northwood and his helpmeets were doing, so He took measures to stop them. It was divine punishment on four men who were aiming to steal the secret of lamp fuel from its rightful discoverers – us.’

It was warm when Bartholomew and Michael left Gonville Hall and began to walk to the Carmelite Priory. Many people had snatched a few hours from work, and were using the time to smarten their houses for the Corpus Christi festivities the following week. The wealthier residents were having their homes painted, while the poorer ones contented themselves with a scrubbing brush and a bucket of water. Bartholomew had rarely seen the town looking so spruce. The work did not, however, extend to removing the piles of rubbish that festered on every street corner.

Edith was supervising the beautification of her husband’s business premises, which involved a wash of pale gold, and hanging baskets of flowering plants from the eaves. Stanmore’s apprentices were thoroughly enjoying themselves, horsing around on ladders and making a good deal of high-spirited noise. Edith fussed about beneath them
like a mother hen, exhorting them to take care and not to lean out so far with their brushes.

‘They will not listen to me,’ she cried, agitated. ‘Can they not see that fooling around on steps is dangerous? What shall I do if one of them falls?’

‘Hire me to stick their smashed pates back together,’ came a smooth voice behind her. It was Surgeon Holm, elegant in a scarlet tunic and matching hose. Meryfeld was with him, short, grubby and unsavoury by comparison, although he was smiling as usual.

‘I thought you disliked cranial surgery,’ Meryfeld said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I, however, have several potions that can knit cracked skulls without resorting to knives and spillages of blood.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Such as what?’

Meryfeld tapped the side of his nose. ‘That is a secret, and I am not in the habit of sharing my miraculous cures with rivals, as you know perfectly well.’

‘He is not a rival,’ said Edith, standing with her hands on her hips. She regarded Meryfeld with dislike. ‘He is a colleague. Tell him this cure, so he may use it to help others.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ said Meryfeld, the smile slipping. ‘He may purchase a pot of my remedy, but I am not giving the recipe to anyone.’

‘Perhaps he will be able to buy some when he wins five marks,’ said Holm silkily. ‘He and I have a little wager, you see. I believe that Isnard and the riverfolk are inveterate criminals, but he maintains they are angels. Who do you think is right, Mistress Stanmore?’

Edith regarded her brother incredulously. ‘You staked five marks on Isnard and his friends being law-abiding? Were you drunk? Or ill? You do not look well today.’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew shortly, aware of Michael chuckling next to him. ‘But people are always maligning
the riverfolk, just because they are poor, and I am tired of it. They are no more corrupt than the next man, and a good deal more honest than many.’

‘You have been spending too much time with your book-bearer,’ drawled Holm. ‘Because these are the kind of sentiments Cynric likes to expound in the King’s Head, to like-minded malcontents who itch to overturn the proper order of things.’

‘Matt was simply defending his patients,’ said Michael. ‘His remarks have nothing to do with the seditious banter that is bandied about in that particular tavern.’

‘If you say so,’ smirked Holm. ‘And while we are on the subject, will you tell Cynric to desist his nasty prattle about peasants and uprisings? We should leave that sort of thing to the French, because I do not want my country turned upside-down by some silly revolution.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Meryfeld. ‘Disorder is lucrative – all those injuries to tend.’

‘Have you learned any more about the unfortunate demise of Vale, Brother?’ asked Holm. ‘It is a most peculiar case, and I do not envy you your investigation.’

‘Neither do I,’ agreed Meryfeld, before Michael could answer. ‘However, I doubt you will solve it. Riborowe has just informed me that those four scholars died by the hand of God, and we all know that He works in mysterious ways. I recommend you abandon the enquiry, lest you annoy Him. But I have patients waiting and remedies to concoct, so I must be on my way. Goodbye.’

‘I dislike them,’ said Edith, when the pair had gone. ‘Meryfeld is all smiles and cheery manners, but he is greedy and selfish. And Holm is greasy.’

‘Greasy?’ queried Michael, amused.

‘Oily,’ elaborated Edith. ‘Smug. Self-satisfied. Slippery. Untrustworthy. Full of—’

‘We have your meaning,’ interrupted Michael, laughing. ‘And I am inclined to concur.’

‘Not about Meryfeld,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He is—’

‘He is unwilling to share his cures with you, despite the fact that you always answer
his
questions,’ interrupted Edith crossly. ‘It is hardly fair. However, even though Holm is greasy, no one can deny that he is extraordinarily handsome. Perhaps more so than anyone I have ever seen.’

‘Holm is?’ asked Bartholomew, incredulously.

Edith laughed. ‘You will not understand, Matt. You are not a woman.’

They turned as footsteps approached from behind. It was Sheriff Tulyet, with Bonabes at his side. Tulyet’s hands were splashed with ink, and he was full of the taut restlessness he always exuded when administrative duties had kept him indoors for too long. The Exemplarius, meanwhile, was distinctly sheepish, and the front of his tunic was soaking wet. He was carrying a soggy bundle.

‘There was an incident,’ Bonabes said in response to Michael’s questioning glance. ‘Weasenham and I were stirring the rags in our paper-making vat when he lost his balance and fell in. It took some time to fish him out.’

‘Is he hurt?’ asked Bartholomew solicitously.

Bonabes grinned as he shook his head, although he struggled for a sober expression when Tulyet shot him a warning glare. ‘Only his pride. I could not rescue him alone, so Ruth summoned reinforcements. Sheriff Tulyet came, and so did Walkelate of King’s Hall, Rolee and Teversham of Bene’t College, Riborowe and Jorz of the Carmelites, Coslaye and Browne from Batayl, Gyseburne—’

‘In other words, half of Cambridge witnessed his predicament,’ interrupted Tulyet, regarding Bonabes balefully.
‘And there was a good deal of merriment before the poor man was extricated.’

Bartholomew smiled, while amusement gleamed in Michael’s green eyes and Edith laughed openly. Bonabes studied his feet, to prevent himself from joining in.

‘So why the disapproval, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘It is not every day that a gossip receives his comeuppance. Surely, you do not feel sorry for him?’

‘No, but during the rescue, pails were overturned, and one contained lye. It splashed on the ceremonial cope that belongs to the Frevill family who live next door, which had just been washed ready for the Corpus Christi pageant next Thursday.’ Tulyet indicated Bonabes’s bundle.

‘It was not our fault that they left it on the wall to dry,’ objected Bonabes. ‘It is a—’

Tulyet silenced him with a look. ‘Needless to say, the Frevills are vexed, and harsh words were exchanged between scholars and townsmen. In the interests of peace, Weasenham has agreed to pay for its repair. Can your seamstresses manage it in time, Edith?’

‘Do you mean the Frevill who is helping to build the Common Library?’ said Bartholomew irrelevantly, watching Edith inspect the ravaged garment. ‘He is a carpenter.’

‘No, I mean the powerful and wealthy Frevill who heads the Guild of Corpus Christi – the carpenter is a lowly second cousin,’ replied Tulyet tersely. He turned to Edith. ‘Frevill will play an important role in the festivities, and the cope is an essential part of it. It is imperative that he is suitably adorned.’

‘I am sure we can do something,’ replied Edith soothingly.

‘Good.’ Tulyet treated Bonabes to another glower. ‘And
no complaints about the price they charge, if you please. You should have been more careful.’

Michael sniggered as he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to the Carmelite Priory, gratified that Weasenham had not only suffered considerable embarrassment in front of a large number of people, but that it was likely to cost him a good deal of money, too.

‘He has inflicted all manner of heartache on others with his wagging tongue, and it is satisfying to see him in trouble with the Sheriff. Perhaps some of his victims will gossip about it, and he will know what it feels like to be on the wrong end of scurrilous chatter.’

‘I do not believe Ruth was Vale’s lover,’ said Bartholomew, thinking more of the stationer’s wife than the stationer. ‘I simply cannot see what would attract her to such a man.’

‘Can you not? Vale was young, reasonably handsome and he could be witty. Compared to Weasenham, he was a veritable Adonis.’

‘Dunning seems to like marrying his daughters to disagreeable men,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is going to foist Surgeon Holm on Julitta soon. You would think he would want better for them.’

‘Nonsense, Matt. You heard what Edith just said about Holm’s beauty, and other women have told me much the same. I imagine Julitta is delighted to have won such a fine specimen.’

‘She is not stupid, Brother. She will be able to see beyond his looks.’

‘Will she? There is no suggestion that she is averse to the match. Indeed, I would say that she is rather pleased by it. And what do you know of women, anyway?’

Bartholomew supposed the monk had a point, given that he had failed to keep the one lady who had meant
more to him than any other. Although scholars were not permitted to fraternise with women, he was currently seeing a widow who lived near the Great Bridge. However, while he liked her greatly, and enjoyed all she had to offer, he could not imagine giving up his University teaching for her, as he would have done for Matilde. No woman would ever compare to Matilde, he thought unhappily, a familiar pang of loss spearing through him.

He and Michael had almost reached the Carmelite Priory when they saw Langelee and Ayera, walking slowly with their heads close together. Ayera was talking in an urgent whisper, and Langelee’s face was a mask of worry. As the Master rarely allowed much to dent his natural ebullience, the expression was cause for concern. His smile was strained when he saw his Fellows.