Murder by the Book (20 page)

Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, feeling her remarks entitled her to an explanation. ‘I think Northwood and the others were poisoned, but an external examination will never prove it. The only way to know for certain is to look inside them, to see whether damage to entrails …’ He trailed off, not sure how much detail to provide.

Julitta winced. ‘I can see how such a procedure might be useful, but it is horrible nonetheless. Perhaps you had better not embark on it, especially in St Mary the Great, where the chances of being caught are rather high.’

‘It will not happen again,’ he said fervently. ‘I have learned my lesson.’

Julitta smiled. ‘Good. Then let us say no more about it.’ She cleared her throat apprehensively. ‘At the risk of sounding selfish, one of the reasons I was distressed by Northwood’s demise was because he had offered to teach me to read. I do not suppose you would oblige, would you?’

Bartholomew blinked, wondering whether he had
misheard, but could tell from the hope in her eyes that he had not. His heart clamoured at him to say yes, to earn time in her company, but the rational part of his mind reminded him that he was too busy and she was betrothed.

‘If you like,’ he heard himself say. ‘But why ask me? I imagine Holm would enjoy—’

‘It will be my wedding gift to him,’ said Julitta, eyes sparkling. ‘A literate woman to manage his household, and to provide him with intelligent conversation during long winter evenings.’

‘Holm is a very lucky man,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Julitta laughed happily. ‘And I am a very lucky woman.’

It was dark by the time Bartholomew left Dunning’s house. The High Street was full of apprentices and labourers who had spent the evening beautifying their masters’ property in preparation for the upcoming festival, and who had then gone to slake their thirst in alehouses. Now they were spilling out in drunken gaggles. Although there had been no serious trouble between the University and the town for months, a lone scholar still presented an attractive target for drink-fuelled townsmen, so Bartholomew cut down the alley that led to Milne Street to avoid unnecessary confrontations. He recalled that Cynric was supposed to be accompanying him out at night, as per Michael’s recommendation following the attack by the hooded men who had wanted the formula for wildfire, but it had not occurred to him to ask the book-bearer to oblige.

Unfortunately, Milne Street contained its own collection of rowdy gangs, so with a weary sigh, he aimed for Cholles Lane instead. He strode past Batayl Hostel, Newe Inn and Holm’s house, and turned right when he reached the river. There were no taverns on or by the towpath, and he would be able to enter Michaelhouse by its back gate.

As he walked, the clouds drifted away from the moon to reveal shadowy figures on the path ahead. He slowed, assuming some of the boisterous rabble had decided to cool themselves with a refreshing dip. They were everywhere that night, it seemed.

But there was nothing in the swift, confident way the figures moved to suggest they had been at the ale, and as he watched, he had the distinct impression that they were engaged in something felonious. He turned away, not so foolish as to challenge them on his own, and supposed that he would have to find yet another route home. But he had taken no more than a few steps back the way he had come before he stopped again.

Two men stood in front of him. It was too dark to see anything of them, other than the fact that their clothes appeared to be black and they wore some form of armour – he could hear leather creak and the clink of metal as they moved.

‘Cut his throat,’ said one to his companion. ‘We have no time for nuisances.’

The other stepped forward, so Bartholomew whipped around and fled, acutely aware of footsteps pounding behind him. His route took him towards the shadowy figures farther on, but they had not ordered his death and he thought their presence would serve to foil the killers on his heels. He soon realised his mistake. Heads jerked up at the sound of running feet, and he heard the distinctive hiss of swords being drawn. Too late, he saw they were wearing the same kind of armour as the pair who were chasing him.

He skidded to a standstill, and one of his pursuers barrelled into him, sending him sprawling. He tried to stagger to his feet, but they forced him to the ground again. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
Visions of Adam’s slit throat flooded his mind, and he fought as hard as he could. Then he was released abruptly, and all he could hear was retreating footsteps. He struggled to his knees, spinning around in alarm when he sensed a presence behind him.

‘Easy, Doctor. It is only us.’

The voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. He shot to his feet, and began to back away. His heart was pounding hard enough to hurt, and his stomach was churning. Where was Dame Pelagia when he needed her?

‘It is Torvin,’ came the voice again. ‘The riverman.’

Bartholomew peered at him. Torvin was one of his patients, a member of the silent, insular community who lived in the ramshackle hovels that lined this part of the river. They eked a meagre existence from fishing and scraps scavenged from the Market Square, and their womenfolk weaved baskets and mats from rushes, which were exchanged for bread.

‘I am here, too,’ came another voice, this one instantly recognisable. It was Isnard the bargeman, swinging along on his crutches – Bartholomew had amputated his leg after an accident some years before. ‘But you should not be. This is no place for a scholar after dark.’

‘Nowhere is, tonight,’ muttered Bartholomew. He looked around for his assailants, but all he could see were riverfolk, distinctive in their ill-assorted rags and reed hats. ‘Who were those men?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Isnard. ‘However, this is the rivermen’s domain, and they do not take kindly to strangers coming at night. They drove the trespassers off with a few well-placed arrows.’

‘We just frightened them,’ Torvin clarified hastily. ‘We are not killers, despite what is being brayed about us in the town.’

‘I know.’ Bartholomew smiled briefly at the silent throng. ‘But I suspect the rogues you just drove off are; I think they are the men who murdered Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman. Sheriff Tulyet has been trying to find them.’

‘Unfortunately, he will not succeed,’ said Torvin. ‘They are too clever for him.’

‘I thought you said they were strangers.’ Bartholomew’s voice was unsteady now the danger was over, and so were his legs. ‘So how do you know they are too clever?’

‘Because I have eyes,’ replied Torvin softly. ‘And I have watched them several times now. They move like water rats – silent, fast and deadly. The Sheriff is no match for them.’

‘Are they smugglers?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Maybe,’ said Isnard. ‘They certainly like to loiter around the town’s quieter waterways. Moreover, they are well-armed and ruthless, and you are right – it probably
was
them who killed Adam, the night-watchman and …’ He trailed off, and shot the rivermen an awkward glance.

‘And my nephew,’ finished Torvin. ‘But the Sheriff thinks he was a beggar.’

‘Do not tell Tulyet, though,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘They cannot afford a priest or a grave-digger, but the Sheriff can, and he will see things decently done. The lad will gain more from being thought a vagrant, than from being named as one of them.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will have to report what happened. Tulyet needs to know that armed men are haunting his town.’

‘I will tell him, too,’ said Isnard. ‘First thing tomorrow. Thank you for betting five marks on our integrity, by the way. Holm is always saying vile things about me and the riverfolk, and we were touched by your faith.’

Wryly, Bartholomew supposed that if the five-mark wager had induced them to come to his rescue, then it was money very well spent.

The next day was cloudy, but still warm, and the breeze was from the south. It carried the scent of ripening crops, and Bartholomew inhaled deeply as he stood in Michaelhouse’s yard, waiting to walk to church. He stifled a sigh when William and Thelnetham began sniping over who was to preach that day. Suttone joined in, but the debate came to an abrupt end when Clippesby’s rat made an appearance. It shot towards Thelnetham, who shrieked girlishly, and pandemonium erupted, with the Gilbertine cowering, William guffawing and Suttone yelling at Clippesby to catch it.

‘Our Dominican is not as lunatic as he would have us believe,’ said Ayera, as he watched. ‘He released that thing deliberately, to quell the spat. And it worked, after a fashion.’

Langelee arrived, scowling when he saw his Fellows in such noisy disarray. Crossly, he whipped open the gate, and strode towards St Michael’s, leaving them to scramble to catch up with him. Ayera ran to his side, and a reluctant smile stole over the Master’s face when he heard what Clippesby had done. Bartholomew was next, with Michael slouching beside him; William, Suttone and Clippesby were on their heels; and Thelnetham was last, because it had taken him longer to regain his composure. He was still furious, although Bartholomew suspected it would be William, not Clippesby, who would bear the brunt of his ire.

‘What time did you come home last night?’ Bartholomew asked Michael, noting that the monk looked decidedly fragile.

‘I cannot recall, and I should not have stayed so late, because Holm is hardly congenial company. But I kept hoping that Dunning would let something slip about the men who died in the garden of the house he donated to the University.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Dunning is a suspect now?’

Michael put a hand to his head. ‘I cannot recall why I thought so now, although it made sense at the time. But it was a waste of effort – I learned nothing to help us. Other than that Dunning has a theory to explain why Coslaye was almost killed by Acton’s
Questio Disputata
.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when the monk paused.

‘That some scholar decided its binding was inferior, so elected to hurl it as far away from him as possible.’ Michael smiled. ‘I only wish it were true, because a bibliophile with those sorts of standards would be easy to identify.’

‘You still have not given up on that case? Everyone else has forgotten about it.’

‘Coslaye has not, and neither have his Batayl colleagues. Besides, as I have explained before, we cannot have scholars resorting to violence when ballots do not go the way they hope.’

‘I suppose not. What will you do today?’

‘Loiter in Cholles Lane and waylay passers-by to see whether anyone noticed anything odd on Tuesday night or early Wednesday. I shall question the Carmelites and the Batayl men again, too.’

‘Do you want me to help?’

‘I can manage, thank you. Terrorise your students into cramming more knowledge into their already overloaded minds today, and we shall resume our enquiries together tomorrow.’

Bartholomew took him at his word, and after church
he staged a series of mock-disputations designed to hone his pupils’ debating skills. He drove them hard, but felt it was worthwhile, despite the fact that they reeled from the hall at the end of the morning complaining that their heads were spinning. He left them to their grumbles, and went to tell Tulyet what had happened the previous night.

Although Cambridge was mostly flat, it did have a hill, and it was on top of this that the Normans had raised a castle some three hundred years earlier. It had originally comprised a wooden structure atop a motte, but a lot of money had been spent on it since, and it was now a sizeable fortress. There was a spacious bailey, enclosed by curtain walls and ditches; at each corner was a sturdy drum tower, while the south-eastern wall boasted the huge, cylindrical Great Tower, the strongest and most formidable part of the complex.

Access to the bailey was gained by crossing a rickety drawbridge and ducking under a portcullis that was rumoured to be hanging by a thread. It was not that Tulyet was careless about maintenance, but that he preferred to divert funds to more urgent causes than the upkeep of a castle with no serious enemies. Beyond them was the Gatehouse, an impressive structure bristling with arrow slits and machicolations. Bartholomew was waved through it with smiles and cheerful greetings from the guards, most of whom he had treated for the occasional bout of fever or minor injury sustained during training.

The Sheriff was in his office in the Great Tower. Clerks, not warriors, surrounded him, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, almost invisible behind the piles of documents that awaited his attention. He beamed when he saw Bartholomew, and rose to his feet with obvious relief.

‘You cannot leave!’ objected one of the clerks, as Tulyet
made for the door. Bartholomew was surprised to note it was Willelmus from the Carmelite Priory – the man who liked to draw chickens. ‘We have not finished the tax returns for—’

‘They can wait,’ said Tulyet crisply. ‘We have been labouring all morning, and I need a rest.’

‘I thought you were a White Friar,’ said Bartholomew to the scribe.

‘He is,’ replied Tulyet, as Willelmus squinted, trying to identify the physician from his voice. ‘And he would much rather be painting hens. But my own clerks are overwhelmed by the additional work the taxes represent, so Prior Etone lent him to me.’

Willelmus did look as though he would rather be in his scriptorium, especially when the man he was supposed to be helping abandoned his duties to pass the time of day with friends, leaving him to twiddle his thumbs. He sighed his exasperation as the Sheriff escaped, standing in such a way that one hand rested pointedly on a pile of documents. Clearly, there was still a lot to do.

‘He is so keen to get back to his real work that he is something of a slave-driver,’ confided Tulyet, clattering down the spiral staircase. ‘I am eager to finish, too, because the King hates his money to be delivered late. But I have my limits.’

When they reached the bailey, Tulyet stretched until his shoulders cracked. Then he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing the fresh air with obvious relief. He had always hated sitting indoors, being a naturally energetic, active man.