Murder by the Book (26 page)

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘No! I have never—’

‘It seems that Poitiers was full of Cambridge scholars that day,’ interrupted Browne with rank disapproval. ‘Bartholomew, Holm, the villainous Riborowe – who says it is what precipitated his interest in ribauldequins. And now Weasenham tells me that Northwood was there, too.’

‘I wish
I
had been,’ said Coslaye wistfully. ‘You really must tell us your experiences on the field, Bartholomew. I guarantee you will find us an enraptured audience.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Men died horribly there, and—’

‘But most of them were French,’ stated Coslaye. ‘So who cares? Poitiers was a great day for our country, and I named this hostel after it. Batayl refers to the Battle of Poitiers.’

Pepin flushed with anger, and it was clear that he held his tongue with difficulty; Bartholomew wondered why he did not transfer to another hostel. Browne rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, although Coslaye did not seem to notice the effect his words were having.

‘We
were
called St Remegius’s Hostel,’ Browne said. The bitter tone of his voice indicated that this was a matter that still rankled with him. ‘But St Remegius was French,
and Coslaye said that was unpatriotic, so he changed it. I did not approve, personally, and—’

‘Well, Bartholomew?’ demanded Coslaye, rudely overriding him. ‘Will you talk to us?’

‘Ask Cynric instead,’ suggested Michael tactfully. ‘He is an excellent storyteller, and more willing to glorify slaughter and bloody death than Matt.’

‘Tell him to come around tonight, then,’ said Coslaye keenly.

‘No,’ said Browne, while Pepin looked appalled. ‘I do not want to hear—’

‘Too bad,’ said Coslaye. ‘Because I do, and I am Principal here. Incidentally, did you hear what happened on Friday night? A Carmelite novice burst in here and threw soot at my painting. I was so incensed that I rose before dawn the following day, and tackled Prior Etone about it.’

‘You were in the Carmelite Friary when the raid took place?’ asked Michael, exchanging a quick glance with Bartholomew. ‘You were nowhere near the castle?’

‘Why would I be at the castle?’ asked Coslaye, frowning his puzzlement. ‘The Sheriff will not want scholars in his domain, I am sure.’

‘We came to discuss the bodies in Newe Inn’s pond again,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Coslaye was not the kind of man to take Robin’s accusation with equanimity, so it was better he did not hear about it. ‘As Batayl lies so close, we wondered whether any of you heard or saw anything odd.’

‘No, as we have told you countless times already,’ said Browne irritably. ‘However, we understand that those four men died on Tuesday night, and we were all out then.’

‘Out where?’ asked Michael.

‘At King’s Hall,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Where there was a gathering of people opposed to the Common Library.’

‘Everyone here went?’ pressed Michael.

Browne nodded. ‘Yes. We are all eager to see the grace overturned.’

‘Unfortunately, it will not be,’ said Michael sourly. ‘I do not approve of it, either, but a vote has been taken and we are stuck with the result. It is a pity, but that is democracy for you.’

‘Then democracy is a stupid system,’ averred Coslaye. He scowled at Bartholomew. ‘It is a good thing that you saved my life, because we all know which way you voted and I would have punched you for it by now, if I did not owe you some consideration.’

‘The four men who died in the pond voted in favour of the library, too,’ fished Michael.

‘So did Sawtre,’ said Browne. ‘It strikes me that libraries are dangerous places, and that we should all stay well away from them. Especially from that evil abomination next door.’

‘I understand Northwood supporting a Common Library,’ mused Coslaye. ‘He was a Carmelite, and therefore naturally sly. And Vale was not overly endowed with wits, so he probably voted the wrong way by mistake. But the London brothers should have known better.’

‘They were members of Batayl,’ Pepin reminded the visitors. ‘So they should have opposed the scheme that saw us deprived of the house Dunning promised we should have.’

‘And he
did
promise,’ added Browne. ‘No matter what he says now.’

‘They lived in a lovely cottage on the High Street,’ said Coslaye bitterly. ‘Because Weasenham paid them a decent wage, and they could afford it. But the rest of us were not so fortunate.’

‘Let us return to this meeting you attended on Tuesday,’ said Michael. ‘What time did it end?’

‘Dusk,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Then we came home and went to bed. Yet I did hear one odd thing during the night …’

‘Did you?’ asked Browne. ‘That surprises me. You have slept like a baby ever since Bartholomew sawed open your head.’

‘I woke,’ snapped Coslaye crossly. ‘And I heard a bell.’

‘A bell?’ echoed Michael. ‘You mean from a church? For vespers or compline?’

‘No, it was too late for either, and it was too high-pitched to have been a bell from a church, anyway. It was a
small
bell. And it definitely came from Newe Inn’s garden.’

Michael asked a few more questions, but the scholars of Batayl were an incurious, unobservant crowd, and had nothing else to add. Browne opened the door for them when they left, then stepped outside, lowering his voice so he would not be heard by his Principal.

‘Do not put too much faith in this bell, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Bartholomew should never have performed his evil surgery, because Coslaye has not been right since, and often claims to hear things the rest of us do not. Do not let his “testimony” lead you astray.’

When they left Batayl, Michael insisted on visiting Newe Inn, to ask whether anyone there had heard a bell on the night Northwood and his friends had died. As usual, it was alive with the sounds of sawing and hammering, and apprentices tore up and down the stairs, yelling urgently to each other. The reek of wood oil was stronger than it had been the last time they had visited – the bust of Aristotle had been drenched in it and had been left outside to dry in the sun.

They walked up to the
libri distribuendi
, where Bartholomew admired the room’s understated opulence yet again. It felt like a place of learning – venerable, solid and sober. Kente came to greet them, his face grey and lined with exhaustion.

‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, regarding him with concern. ‘You will make yourself ill if you drive yourself so hard.’

Kente managed to smile. ‘It is only for another four days, and the bonus for finishing on time will more than compensate me for any discomfort. I am not the only one who is tired, anyway – Walkelate and Frevill have worked just as hard, if not harder.’

‘They have,’ agreed Michael, looking around. ‘Although I still fail to understand why Walkelate accepted this project in the first place, given his College’s antipathy towards it.’

‘Antipathy!’ snorted Kente. ‘Downright hostile opposition would be a more accurate description. And he
accepted because it is
right
. He is an ethical man – a little eccentric perhaps, and given to funny ideas, but so are all scholars, so we should not hold it against him.’

‘What sort of funny ideas?’ asked Bartholomew.

Kente sniffed. ‘None as strange as yours, Doctor, with your hand-washing and affection for boiled water. His include things like making metal brackets for the bookshelves. We were skidding about on iron filings for days before I managed to convince him that wooden ones are better.’

‘I know we have asked before, but do you have any theories about the four scholars who died not a stone’s throw from here?’ enquired Michael hopefully.

‘Of course. It has come to light that they were using the garden for sly experiments – trying to make lamp fuel before the men who had the idea in the first place – and the Devil likes those kind of sinners.
He
came and took them.’

‘Other people say it was God,’ remarked Michael.

Kente shrugged. ‘Well, neither will appreciate you probing their business, so I should let the matter drop if I were you. But you are not here to chat to me. Come, I will take you to Walkelate.’

Bartholomew and Michael followed him into the room containing the
libri concatenati
, where Walkelate was in conference with Frevill and Dunning. The King’s Hall architect looked tired, and so did Frevill, although neither seemed to be teetering on the edge of collapse like Kente.

‘I am alarmed by the amount of work still to be done,’ Dunning was saying. ‘Are you sure all will be ready?’

‘Yes,’ the architect replied firmly. ‘Just one more polish, and we shall seal the door to this room until the grand opening on Thursday.’

‘And we have almost finished the shelves for the
libri
distribuendi
, too,’ added Frevill. ‘We may have to labour frantically to see them absolutely perfect. But perfect they will be.’

‘They will,’ agreed Walkelate. He rested his hand on Frevill’s shoulder, and beamed at Kente. ‘I could not have hoped for better craftsmen. Working with you has been a privilege.’

The sincerity of his words seemed to give Kente new energy and he drew himself up to his full height. ‘Come, Frevill. Let us see whether Aristotle is dry.’

The craftsmen left, and Dunning went with them, muttering about some aspect of the bust that was not to his liking.

‘How may I help you, Brother?’ asked Walkelate, beginning to make notes on a scrap of parchment using the
cista
as a table. ‘Ah! Good day, Holm. How are you?’

Bartholomew turned to see the surgeon behind him, holding a large packet. Walkelate leapt to his feet and seized it eagerly.

‘Is this it?’ he demanded, eyes full of keen anticipation.

‘It is, and I made it myself,’ replied Holm, oozing smug confidence. ‘Out of rose petals and lily of the valley. And I added cinnamon and nutmeg, too, for good measure.’

‘It is to mask the stench of Kente’s wood oil,’ Walkelate explained excitedly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Holm assures me that it will have eliminated all unwanted odours by Thursday.’

‘I use it when wounds turn bad, and it always works,’ smiled the surgeon. ‘You are a friend, Walkelate, so I shall not charge you for my labour. A shilling will cover the cost of the ingredients.’

‘Thank you,’ said Walkelate gratefully, handing over the coins, although Bartholomew thought the price rather high. ‘I shall fetch a bowl.’

Holm raised his hands in a shrug when the architect had gone, as if he felt the need to explain his friendship. ‘He was kind to me when I first arrived, so I decided to continue the association. He ranks quite highly at King’s Hall, and I am always happy to maintain good relations with those who might be useful to me one day. But what are
you
doing here?’

‘Looking into the death of your colleague Vale and his friends,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I do not suppose you noticed anything amiss, did you, from your home next door?’

‘Only the lights, which I have already mentioned to Bartholomew,’ replied Holm. ‘And I
would
tell you if I had seen anything else, because I shall play a prominent role in this library’s opening, and I have no intention of being deprived of an opportunity to shine.’

‘Walkelate tells us that you hired singers that night,’ said Michael. ‘To entertain the craftsmen.’

Holm nodded. ‘They were oiling shelves, which is painstakingly dull, so I took pity on them. However, I wished I had not – they joined in the songs and the caterwauling was dreadful. I could hear them from my house, and was obliged to close the windows in the end.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Why had the surgeon so suddenly decided to treat Walkelate’s exhausted workforce? Did he have another reason for his uncharacteristic kindness – such as drowning out anything that might have been happening in the garden?

‘Do you ever visit the pond?’ he asked, watching Holm intently.

But he was wasting his time; he could read nothing in the bland features except a mild surprise at the question. ‘No, of course not. I understand it is full of evil sprites.’

‘Then did you ever see Vale, Northwood or the London brothers there?’ asked Michael.

‘I have better things to do than gaze into overgrown gardens. I only noticed those lights because I happened to leave a book on my windowsill, and I saw them when I went to move it.’ Holm’s expression turned salacious. ‘Have you heard the rumour that Vale and Ruth were once lovers?’

Bartholomew struggled to mask his dislike of the man, and wondered how Julitta, who seemed sensible, could be deceived by the oily charm he oozed when he was with her. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But I do not believe it can be true. Ruth is a decent lady.’

‘You are half right,’ said Holm, with a nasty smile. ‘It is not true. And the reason is because Ruth’s heart belongs to Bonabes, and Bonabes’s to her. Which explains why a man of the Exemplarius’s abilities and intelligence continues to labour for the ghastly Weasenham.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Michael, although the claim came as a surprise to Bartholomew, who was not very observant about such matters. ‘Bonabes is never far from Ruth, and I have seen the secret looks they exchange. They should take more care, because Weasenham is vindictive.’

‘And he has poisonous substances to hand,’ added Holm darkly. ‘Ones for making paper.’

‘Here,’ said Walkelate, returning with a basin. He tipped Holm’s concoction into it, and set it on a shelf. Bartholomew inspected it and saw that the mixture comprised mostly bits of stem, which would do little to combat noxious smells. Holm had cheated the man he claimed was a friend.

‘We were lucky not to have been slaughtered in our beds yesterday, because Tulyet proved woefully inadequate
at defending us,’ said Holm conversationally. ‘I am going to complain to the King about him. Now I live in this town, it must be properly guarded.’

‘I doubt you were in danger,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘I suspect the raiders were local men who wanted the tax money, and they will know better than to harm the town’s only surgeon.’

‘That cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet would have noticed any Cambridge resident assembling a private army—’