Murder by the Book (30 page)

‘The steps broke,’ explained Heltisle, pointing to where the wheeled stairs lay on their side. ‘We heard the crash, and came racing in here to find him … But he cannot be dead, Bartholomew! He is just knocked out of his wits. Look again.’

‘His neck is broken,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. If it is any consolation, death would have been instant. He felt nothing.’

‘It is no consolation at all!’ shouted Heltisle. ‘He owes me ten shillings.’

To mask his bemusement at the remark, Bartholomew went to inspect the ladder. One of the legs had split, causing the whole thing to topple sideways when Rolee reached the top. It was not much of a drop from the mezzanine, and he had been acutely unlucky to land so awkwardly.

‘Will there be an investigation?’ asked Heltisle in an uncharacteristically small voice. He hated situations that involved the Senior Proctor, because bad publicity affected benefactions.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Michael will need to examine the steps, and he will want you to tell him exactly what happened. Beyond that, I cannot say.’

‘Very well,’ sniffed Heltisle. ‘Although it is a waste of time. He can do more good by looking into those four corpses at the Common Library. The grace to found such an institution should never have been passed, you know. It is a wicked scheme, and will end in tears.’

There was a chorus of agreement from his Fellows. Bartholomew said nothing, knowing the remarks were aimed at him for having had the audacity to support it.

‘We are not paying you for this visit, by the way,’ said Heltisle. ‘We called you to help Rolee, but instead you only pronounced him dead. You did not use your skills to save him.’

A fee had been the last thing on Bartholomew’s mind – he frequently forgot to charge for his services anyway – and he waved away Heltisle’s comment as of no consequence.

‘So you may have this instead,’ Heltisle went on, pressing a book into his hands.

‘No!’ Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘This is far too valuable for—’

‘I have never heard a physician try to negotiate his fee downwards before,’ said Heltisle with a grim smile. ‘Perhaps the tales about your honesty are true after all.’

‘Oh, he is honest,’ muttered Teversham. ‘That has never been in question. It is his pact with the Devil that I am worried about.’

Bartholomew sighed wearily. ‘I have no pact with the Devil. Why will no one believe me?’

‘Because no
medicus
should enjoy as much success as you do,’ explained Teversham shortly. ‘It is not natural.’

‘You condemn me for saving people?’ asked Bartholomew archly.

‘If Satan does not help you, then how do you explain your victories?’ demanded Teversham.

‘Hot water mostly,’ flashed Bartholomew, and then wished he had not.

Evesham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Water that has been cooked in the fires of Hell?’

‘Water from the town well,’ snapped Bartholomew,
angry with himself for not guessing how Bene’t would respond to his remarks, especially after his recent conversation with Gyseburne about boiled bandages. ‘Which has been heated in our kitchen.’

‘We do not want to know, thank you,’ said Heltisle, cutting across Teversham’s response. ‘However, to return to the book, we decided before you arrived that we would give it to the
medicus
who tended Rolee. Not only is it a bestiary – and we do not have room for such foolery in our library – but he cut his hand last week, and managed to smear blood all over it.’

Bartholomew peered at the ominous stain in the gloom. ‘I am sure it will wash off. But I cannot take a book, even so. It is far too—’

‘It is yours now, whether you like it or not,’ added Teversham. ‘Put it in your Common Library if you decline to keep it yourself. God knows, that foundation is tainted enough, so Rolee’s nasty volume should feel perfectly at home there.’

Bartholomew objected to being bullied into accepting a gift he did not want, but he was too tired for further confrontation. He nodded cool thanks, and left Bene’t without another word. He began to walk home again, craving the gentler company of Michaelhouse, but running footsteps made him spin around in alarm. He braced himself for trouble, but it was only Cynric.

‘Come quick,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘Coslaye was not in when I arrived, so the students went to look for him. They found him in his garden, and his head has been stove in by a book.’

‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew in dismay.

‘Yes,’ panted Cynric. ‘And your surgery will not save him this time. He is utterly dead.’

It was not far from Bene’t College to Cholles Lane, and it took only a few moments for Bartholomew to run the distance, Cynric at his heels. It was now pitch black, and the streets smelled of warm dust and horse manure, overlain with the dank, rich odour of the river.

The door to Batayl was open, and Bartholomew walked inside to find the hostel deserted. Raised voices told him that everyone was in the tiny garden, which was accessed through a second door at the back of the house. Batayl’s eight students, Browne, Michael and two beadles were crammed into it, all clustered around Coslaye, who lay on the ground.

‘Perhaps you should take your lads inside, Browne,’ Michael was saying. ‘There is no need for them to witness this sad sight.’

‘There is every need,’ Browne snapped. ‘Their Principal has been most wickedly slain by Carmelites, and they
should
see this vile handiwork.’

‘Enough,’ said Michael warningly. ‘We must assess the evidence before—’

‘Evidence be damned!’ shouted Browne. ‘We all know who did this terrible thing.’

The students howled their support, and it was not easy for Bartholomew to dodge through their waving fists to reach Coslaye. He managed, finally, shoving his new bestiary at Cynric, and inspecting the fallen Principal in the feeble light shed from a lamp held by Pepin.

Coslaye lay on his front, arms thrown out to the sides. He had been dealt a substantial blow from behind, heavy enough to smash his skull. An examination revealed no other suspicious marks, except a bad bruise on his left foot.

‘How did he come by this?’ he asked.

‘It probably happened in Newe Inn, which is always littered with dangerous bits of wood and tools,’ said Browne, his sullen expression making it clear that he considered the injury of far less importance than the one to Coslaye’s head, which had killed him. ‘Walkelate is always inviting us in there, probably in the hope that we will be maimed – in revenge for us opposing his stupid library.’

Bartholomew inspected the foot more closely, and deduced that something sharp had struck it, such as might have happened if a dagger had been lobbed. He stared at the mark. Had Coslaye been among the men who had ambushed him, injured by one of Pelagia’s knives? But why would he want a formula for wildfire? Or had Coslaye been hurt attacking the castle, and Robin
had
seen him among the raiders? But Coslaye claimed to have been quarrelling with the Carmelites at the time, and so could not have been wielding a sword.

Michael nodded to his beadles, who began to usher the Batayl men back into their hostel. They objected, particularly Browne, but the beadles were used to recalcitrant academics, and soon had them where they wanted them to be.

‘What can you tell me, Matt?’ asked Michael, once they had gone.

‘That Coslaye was hit from behind with something heavy. And that the damage to his foot is several days older.’

‘Did he know his killer? Or is this the work of a stranger?’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How am I supposed to deduce that?’

‘By the way the body landed?’ suggested Michael. ‘Or the position of the wound? You have drawn such conclusions before, so do not look at me as though I am short of wits.’

‘He is on his front, so he may have been running from a stranger when he was struck. Of course, he could equally well have been trying to escape from a murderous friend. Alternatively, his body could have been moved after he died, to make us think he was fleeing from someone.’

‘That is hardly helpful,’ said Michael reproachfully. ‘Let us discuss his foot, then. What do you make of that?’

‘It looks as though the damage was caused by a pointed implement that struck it with some force, but that was prevented from breaking the skin by his hard-leather shoe.’

‘Did you ever notice Coslaye limping? If we can ascertain when he came by this injury, we may be able to work out how it happened.’

Bartholomew thought hard. ‘I was attacked on Wednesday night, and we met Coslaye the next day when he was quarrelling with the Carmelites, but I do not recall whether he hobbled or not. The next time I saw him, he was lying down – he was ill from bad food. And the time after that he was sitting, reading to his students.’

It told them nothing, and Michael’s expression was unhappy as he led the way inside the hostel, where he asked the Batayl men again what they thought had happened.

‘And do not accuse the Carmelites unless you have solid evidence to prove it,’ he warned.

Browne glowered and folded his arms, petulantly declining to speak unless he could reiterate his firmly held convictions.

‘Perhaps it was suicide,’ suggested Pepin with a Gallic shrug. ‘Coslaye has not been himself since Dunning gave Newe Inn away.’

‘It was not suicide,’ said Bartholomew, trying to gauge the Frenchman’s expression in the flickering light. Had he dispatched his Principal for being a Francophobe? ‘Killing yourself with a blow to the back of the head is virtually impossible.’

‘
Virtually
impossible,’ pounced Pepin. ‘That means there is a chance that I am right. Yes?’

‘A very small one.’ Bartholomew gave up trying to read Pepin, and turned to Browne. ‘Did you and Coslaye come straight home after visiting Newe Inn earlier this evening?’

‘Coslaye did, but I had business elsewhere.’ Browne scowled when Michael indicated that this was not enough of an answer. ‘All right, I went to watch the Carmelite Priory. But so what? It is not illegal to stare at friaries. I only wish I had stayed longer, because then they could not have sneaked into our home and murdered our Principal!’

There was a growl of agreement from the students, while Bartholomew thought that Browne’s reply did Pepin no favours – if Coslaye had arrived home without Browne, and all the others had been at a sermon in St Mary the Great, it meant that Coslaye and Pepin had been alone together.

‘The Carmelites hate us,’ said Browne, eagerly seizing the opportunity to put his case. ‘And it is obvious what happened: when Coslaye did not immediately agree to Etone’s offer of a truce, one of them came here and murdered him, just as they tried to murder him when they threw that book at the Convocation.’

‘
Mon Dieu
!’ cried Pepin suddenly, raising the lamp to illuminate what Cynric held. ‘Maybe you are wrong to accuse
the White Friars, because here is a big book – one with blood all over it!’

‘It is Bartholomew’s,’ said Browne. ‘I saw him bring it. Is he Coslaye’s murderer, then?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael, raising his hand when several students moved threateningly towards the physician. ‘He is not in the habit of dispatching patients, especially after expending so much effort on making them well.’

‘Surgery!’ spat Browne. ‘Such techniques are contrary to God’s will. Doubtless Satan wanted the soul he should have had at the Convocation, and ordered Bartholomew to put matters right.’

‘If Coslaye’s surgery was against the will of God, then it cannot have been the Devil demanding his death now,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘If you must make slanderous accusations, at least ensure they are logical. However, I think we had better inspect your own books before we go any further.’

Without waiting for Browne’s response, he stalked towards the shelf where Batayl kept its small collection of reading material. When all eyes were on the monk, Cynric promptly shoved the bestiary back at Bartholomew with a moue of distaste.

‘Here is our murder weapon,’ said Michael, withdrawing the tome at the very bottom of the pile. He held it aloft, so the Batayl men could see the dark mess along its spine. ‘The blood is still wet, and you can see hair adhering to it. Coslaye’s.’

‘It is Acton’s
Questio Disputata
,’ breathed Pepin. ‘The book that almost killed him last time.’

Browne’s face was white with horror. ‘The fact that Coslaye was dispatched with one of our books does not mean that we did it. Anyone could have come in, grabbed the tome and hit him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now answer some questions. Who found him out here?’

‘Browne did,’ replied Pepin, rather quickly. ‘When everyone came back from the sermon, we had something to eat, then sat inside together, waiting for Cynric to come and talk to us about Poitiers. Browne—’

‘Poitiers!’ spat Browne angrily. ‘I am sick of hearing about Poitiers! We won – France is demoralised, she is crippled by debt, her peasants are on the verge of revolt, and our own army continues to ravage her farms and villages. Is this not enough? Must we continue to gloat over the bloody slaughter of her boys, too?’

‘Coslaye was not here,’ Pepin went on, after a brief pause in which everyone looked startled by the outburst. ‘And after a while we became worried, because we all knew how eager he was to hear Cynric. We went to look for him. Browne came out here to check the latrines and there he was …’

‘How long had he been missing?’ Michael demanded.

‘When he returned from Newe Inn, he sent me out to buy some ale to drink while we listened to Cynric,’ replied Pepin. ‘He was not here when I got back, and none of us saw him again until Browne found his corpse.’

‘You have three choices for suspects, Brother,’ said Browne tightly. ‘Namely Bartholomew, a Carmelite or the Devil. It is a pity you did not bother to catch the villain who tried to kill poor Coslaye the first time, because if you had, we might not be mourning him now.’

The next day was cloudy, and the dry heat of the past few days had turned humid. Bartholomew was called before dawn to tend one of the men in the castle, and then was summoned to the hovels on the towpath, where the riverfolk lived. As usual, they were uncommunicative, and it
took some time to ascertain exactly what they wanted him to do. Eventually, he managed to evince that several were suffering from stomach pains.