Murder by the Book (35 page)

‘Then cancel it.’

‘We cannot cancel Corpus Christi!’ exclaimed Michael, shocked. ‘It is one of the most important celebrations of the year – religious
and
secular.’

‘Then call off the launch of the library. That will free the beadles to—’

‘If we do, we will never have a benefaction from a townsman again, because Dunning’s disappointment will know no bounds. We shall just have to be vigilant.’

‘Vigilant for attacks by robbers who have already stormed the castle and killed experienced soldiers,
and
for mischief by the disaffected half of the University that does not want a Common Library?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘That should be easy enough!’

Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘If we solve these murders by the day after tomorrow, perhaps our rebellious scholars will stop saying that repositories for books are dangerous.’

‘I think it is time that we reviewed what we know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To see if there are clues we have overlooked.’

Michael brightened. ‘Very well. We shall do it in the Brazen George, then, where a small repast might stimulate our minds into some constructive thinking.’

The streets were busy as Bartholomew and Michael walked to the High Street. Soldiers were everywhere, and Bartholomew could only suppose that Tulyet had drafted reinforcements from other towns. People continued their Corpus Christi preparations, but uneasily, much of the pleasure of the occasion stripped away by the fear of invasion.

‘I am going to close on Thursday,’ confided Landlord Lister, as he served them bread and a selection of cold meats. ‘I do not want to attract the attention of mercenaries by selling ale.’

‘They will not come if everyone is expecting them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The element of surprise is an important factor in raids like these. And they have lost it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lister. ‘But the burgesses are taking no chances. Most of the wealthier ones have already left town, taking their families and valuables with them. Your sister and brother-in-law are among them, as a matter of fact, Doctor. They left this morning with their apprentices. Still, if these villains do attack, at least they will not get the taxes. Those are no longer in the castle.’

‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Are they dispatched to London, then?’

‘There is no need to be sly with me, Brother,’ said Lester, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Everyone knows the University has agreed to hide them for us.’

Michael stared at him. ‘That is untrue. We have done nothing of the kind!’

Lister winked knowingly. ‘Of course not.’

Michael rubbed his eyes when the landlord had gone. ‘This tale is false, but I doubt anyone will believe me. So you had better start analysing clues before I jump on a horse and follow your family to some peaceful village, because I am beginning to feel unpleasantly overwhelmed.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to begin, as they had scant evidence to analyse. He ate some bread, and tried to concentrate, but his mind kept straying back to what Rougham had done.

‘I did not think anyone else had remembered,’ he said unhappily. ‘The others recalled the pitch, brimstone and quicklime, but not the rock oil. How could Rougham have been so weak?’

‘Not everyone possesses your courage, Matt, especially when confronted by sword-wielding criminals. Incidentally, my grandmother knows a great deal about experiments to produce wildfire, but admitted that rock oil did not feature in any of the ones she is aware of.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, appalled. ‘If she intends to make some herself, she will be taking a serious risk. Rock oil needs to be distilled first, which is an extremely hazardous process. Then it must be dissolved in brimstone or resin, which is not easy, either.’

‘I will warn her,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot see her looming over a cauldron, preparing wicked substances to be used in battles.’ Bartholomew could, rather easily.
‘She thinks the men who attacked you are from the same band that has been spying …’

‘Probably. I noticed last night that the armour they wore was identical to that of the fellows who chased me along the river last week.’

‘You were a victim of your own predictability,’ chided Michael. ‘Everyone knows that the
medici
meet of an evening to meddle with lamp fuel, and that you walk home afterwards in the dark. All these villains had to do was wait until you happened by.’

Michael was right, and Bartholomew was disgusted with himself. He did not think he would ever sleep easy again, knowing that he bore at least some of the responsibility for the disaster.

‘Eight deaths,’ said Michael, after a while. ‘Four men in a library garden, Sawtre crushed by a bookcase, Rolee toppled from his library’s steps, Teversham strangled by a book chain, and Coslaye brained with a tome – twice. This cannot be coincidence, so tell me what it means.’

With an effort, Bartholomew dragged his thoughts away from wildfire. ‘Five of these victims supported the Common Library, two opposed it, and Rolee voted against it, but later decided to give it one of his books. It seems unlikely that they all died by the same hand.’

Michael frowned. ‘Northwood, Vale and the Londons were seen loitering in Cholles Lane before entering Newe Inn’s garden; Coslaye and the apprentice thought they heard a bell ringing; and we have reason to believe that they were trying to invent lamp fuel.’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think
they
were experimenting with wildfire? I liked Northwood, but he did allow his intellect to lead him – he might have overlooked the ethics of the situation for the thrill of solving a mystery.
Meanwhile, Vale wanted to be rich, and the secret for such a weapon will be worth a great deal of money …’

‘And the London brothers seemed decent, but were quiet and private and no one knew them very well. It would certainly explain why my grandmother searched their home.’

They were both silent, thinking hard.

‘I am sure Newe Inn’s pond holds a clue,’ said Michael after a while. ‘There is definitely something sinister about it – it is unusually deep for a start.’ He sighed. ‘We shall need our wits about us if we are to crack this case, for I sense a very devious mind behind it.’

‘Ayera,’ said Bartholomew softly. He held up his hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know you had good reasons to dismiss what Gyseburne and Clippesby said about him being involved in the castle raid, but I tackled him about it anyway, and—’

‘You did what?’ Michael was shocked.

‘I asked why he was wearing armour under his tabard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And why he was limping. He had no convincing explanation for either. Moreover, he was to hand when Langelee was attacked, and he has taken to going out at peculiar hours.’

Michael was pale. ‘I hope to God you are wrong.’

‘So do I.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am anxious about Langelee, too. He has also been leaving Michaelhouse at odd times and was strangely defensive of Ayera.’

‘They are friends – of course he was defensive. And there will be a good reason for his disappearances. The College is in debt, so perhaps he is working to raise new funds.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘That is what worries me.’

Beadle Meadowman came with urgent documents for Michael to sign, and while he waited for the monk to finish, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and took his new bestiary to Deynman. The Librarian was sitting in the corner of the hall, making an inventory of his books, although as he rarely let anyone, not even Fellows, remove them for personal study, it was hardly necessary.

‘I am never lending anything to anyone again,’ Deynman declared angrily. ‘No one knows how to treat books.’ He pointed accusingly at the volume Bartholomew held. ‘And to prove my point, look at that one. It is drenched in blood.’

‘Hardly drenched,’ said Bartholomew, handing it over. ‘Just a smear or two. If you do not want it for Michaelhouse, you can take it to Newe Inn.’

‘I do want it,’ said Deynman, clutching it possessively. ‘I shall clean it off and keep it safe.’

‘You do not know what it is yet,’ said Bartholomew, amused.

‘I do not care. It has pages and a cover, so it is a book. And books belong with me, because
I
am Librarian.’ Deynman pronounced the last word grandly, still delighted with the way it sounded. ‘No one is going to write “arse” in this little beauty.’

Bartholomew regarded him in bafflement. ‘Has someone—’

‘Yes, someone has!’ snapped Deynman. ‘In Apollodorus’s
Poliorcetica
.’

‘Do you know who?’

‘I do.’ Suddenly, Deynman’s indignation evaporated, and he reverted to the likeable but dim-witted lad Bartholomew knew and loved. ‘My remit is to care for these books, but when a senior member desecrates one, what am I supposed to do?’

‘A Fellow?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to think of who might have done such a thing.

‘Langelee,’ confided Deynman in an agonised whisper. ‘He asked to borrow it last week, and I let him, because he is the Master. But when it came back … look!’

He opened the offending tome, and there was the word scrawled in the margin, definitely in Langelee’s untidy hand. The fact that it was in the vernacular, not Latin or Greek, spoke volumes, too. Langelee’s grasp of classical languages was not the best.

‘Why did he want such a book?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He teaches philosophy, and he, unlike the rest of us, tends not to venture into other disciplines.’

‘He is not clever enough,’ said Deynman, blithely oblivious of the fact that he was in no position to criticise anyone’s intellect. ‘The rest of us like to hone our minds, but he would rather play camp-ball. He has never asked to borrow a book before, and I should have thought of an excuse not to let him have it.’

‘You cannot prevent the Master from using his own library.’

‘I can and I will,’ vowed Deynman. ‘I saw him reading it with Ayera later. Now
he
would never deface a book. He cares too deeply about them.’

Bartholomew was puzzled and worried. Langelee was not a man for academic chitchat, especially with someone who possessed an intellect as formidable as Ayera’s, so what had they really been doing? He patted the Librarian’s shoulder, and bent to read what had prompted Langelee to do such a terrible thing. It was the chapter on devices that could be used to attack a castle. A wash of cold dread flooded over him as he scanned descriptions of siege engines, weapons for undermining rocks, and recipes for making things that exploded.

‘Langelee borrowed this last week?’ he asked.

Deynman nodded. ‘Yes, why? What is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost.’

Bartholomew gripped Deynman’s arm urgently. ‘Forget about this. Do not mention it to the Master or to anyone else.’

‘Why?’ pressed Deynman. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Neither do I,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I do know we need to be careful.’

When Bartholomew found Michael, the monk was just finishing a discussion with Clippesby. The Dominican was agitated, and shot towards the stables when Bartholomew approached, muttering something about needing a sensible conversation with a horse to calm his nerves. Michael’s expression was one of exasperation and bemusement in equal measure.

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘That the rat declines to visit libraries any more, because they are too dangerous; the Carmelite Friary’s blackbirds have a low opinion of Riborowe; and the College cat reports that Langelee and Ayera have taken to going out at strange times, sometimes together but usually alone.’

Bartholomew watched Clippesby disappear into the stable, and wondered what to do about the cat’s intelligence in particular.

‘There will be a grain of truth in it all,’ sighed Michael. ‘There usually is, although it is difficult to extract fact from fiction where he is concerned. The man is a lunatic, and I often wonder why we do not dismiss him and appoint someone sane.’

‘Because he is gentle and good, and that is worth a great deal.’

‘I suppose so. But I can tell from the expression on
your face that something else is wrong now. Did Deynman refuse you access to some text?’

‘Ayera and Langelee have been reading up on warfare. And things that explode.’

Michael swallowed hard. ‘What you said earlier has jogged my memory –
I
noticed Ayera’s limp, too. Could he have been one of the trio my grandmother drove away from you on Wednesday? She told me later that she thought she had injured two of them enough to slow them down.’

‘She hit one in the foot and the other in the thigh. Coslaye had a damaged foot …’

‘And Ayera walked as though his injury was higher up. Yet I cannot see him joining forces with the likes of the Principal of Batayl. But having said that, Ayera has always been something of an enigma. I hope to God he has not led Langelee astray.’

‘No one “leads” the Master anywhere he does not want to go.’

Michael was sombre. ‘True. And we must not forget that he was the chief henchman for a powerful churchman with a lot of enemies. He must have been very good at it – those sorts of occupations tend to have a short life expectancy, and he did it for years.’