Murder by the Book (40 page)

‘I will be dead when I tell you what I know anyway,’ said Willelmus with quiet dignity. ‘But I want to make my peace with Ayce first.’

Bartholomew thought it was a bad idea to bring Ayce face to face with his son’s killer, but Willelmus was adamant, and Michael was eager to have the information he held. So was Tulyet, when the situation was explained to him.

‘It is irregular, but I suppose we can oblige,’ he said. ‘But answer me one thing first, Willelmus: how did you come by your limp? You claimed you fell down the stairs in the dark. Is it true, or did you grab a sword and fight for these damned marauders?’

That notion coaxed a reluctant smile to Willelmus’s pale face, and he pulled up his robe to reveal a badly swollen ankle. ‘I
did
fall down the stairs, but not in the dark. My eyesight …’

‘He is going blind,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet. ‘Etone intends to make him Girton’s parish priest soon, so that he will have to give up scribing in the hope of saving what little vision he has left.’

‘And I would have been miserable,’ said Willelmus softly. ‘Perhaps it is better this way.’

Tulyet led the way to the dungeon, Willelmus walking between Michael and Sergeant Helbye, dwarfed by both. Bartholomew brought up the rear, convinced they were making a mistake. Ayce was unstable, and he could not see him or Willelmus benefiting from the confrontation.

Ayce stood when the door to his cell was opened, mystified by the arrival of visitors, none of whom spoke as they parted to let Willelmus through. He stared in confusion at the scribe, but then recognition dawned, and his face
registered a gamut of emotions – shock, horror and finally rage.

‘You mean to torment me by bringing my son’s killer here?’ he snarled. Bartholomew braced himself to intervene, but Tulyet grabbed his arm and held him back.

‘He wants to talk to you,’ explained Michael. ‘To tell you what happened.’

‘I already know what happened,’ shouted Ayce, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Take him away. I do not want to look at him.’

‘I have been living in terror of recognition every day for the past five years,’ whispered Willelmus. ‘I rarely leave my priory …’

‘I do not care,’ yelled Ayce. ‘You may be a friar now, but you are still a killer.’

‘Wait, Matt!’ hissed Tulyet, when the physician tried a second time to reach for the scribe. ‘The sooner Willelmus says his piece, the sooner we can have the information he—’

‘John deserved to die!’ screamed Willelmus suddenly, lunging forward. ‘He was a mindless, bullying, self-serving brute. I could have lived happily here, were it not for
your
bitter ramblings. The pair of you destroyed my life.’

Bartholomew fought free of Tulyet’s restraining grip, but it was too late. Willelmus had a knife, and had thrust it into Ayce’s chest before the astonished onlookers could stop him. Helbye reacted instinctively. His sword flashed and Willelmus dropped to the ground, even as Tulyet yelled for him to stop. Bartholomew shoved past the sergeant, and went to kneel next to Ayce – he did not need to examine Willelmus to know that he was beyond help.

‘You see?’ Ayce whispered weakly. ‘Hildersham was a killer, and felt no remorse. He would have claimed benefit of clergy a second time, had your soldier not acted.’

‘He spent his life drawing your son’s initials in books,’ said Bartholomew, confused and uncertain. ‘And chickens. He said it was to honour John’s memory.’

‘I doubt his motives were pure,’ breathed Ayce. ‘Still, at least fear of exposure seems to have tainted the freedom he should never have had. Some justice was served, at least.’

‘This should not have happened.’ Bartholomew tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound in Ayce’s chest, but it was hopeless.

‘You were kind to me, so I shall tell you something,’ whispered Ayce, almost inaudible. ‘You should look to your own house if you want to identify the raiders. Ayera was with us.’

It was not long before his laboured breathing faltered into silence. Bartholomew stood, sickened and angry by what had been allowed to happen.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Tulyet helplessly. ‘I thought the danger would come from Ayce, and it never occurred to me to search Willelmus for weapons. But why did he do it? Surely, only a fool or a madman would commit murder in front of the Sheriff?’

‘Because he had nothing to lose,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly. ‘His days at the scriptorium were numbered because of his failing eyesight, and Prior Etone intended to send him to Girton. But who lives in Girton? The Ayce family.’

‘I feel as though I have been used,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘By Willelmus
and
by Ayce – two men who would rather their blood was on my hands than face what their own futures held.’

‘Willelmus pretended to be meek, but he was anything but,’ said Helbye in the silence that followed. ‘Some of the lads were fooling about the other day, teasing him,
and he grabbed a sword and drove them back like a lion. It is why I did not hesitate when I saw he had a dagger.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘He might have turned on us after dispatching Ayce. Unfortunately, we are now deprived of two men who had valuable information.’

‘You can find the name of the juror from court records,’ said Bartholomew. He was thoughtful. ‘However, I suspect the man who really terrified him into a swoon was Ayce. In other words, he fainted from shock when he saw his victim’s father.’

‘What did Ayce tell you as he breathed his last?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I tried to listen, but his voice was too low.’

‘It was not … he was difficult to hear,’ mumbled Bartholomew. He was not good at lying.

‘Tell me,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘It is no time for games.’

‘He claimed Ayera was among the raiders,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily, supposing Tulyet had a right to know, although his stomach twisted with guilt and shame as the words came out.

‘Ayera?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘He must be mistaken!’

‘Of course he was,’ agreed Michael smoothly. ‘And in the interests of harmony between town and University, I recommend that Matt and I look into the matter, Dick. Not you.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, after a brief moment of reflection. ‘But will you send Cynric with news of what you discover? Whatever it may be? The moment you know it?’

‘As fast as he can run,’ agreed Michael.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael hurried back to the College to confront Ayera. ‘I tried to dissemble, but Dick saw straight through me.’

‘It is not you who should be apologising,’ said Michael
grimly. ‘It is Ayera. Thank God we have a Sheriff who appreciates the importance of good relations. Any other secular official would have raced to directly Michaelhouse and made an arrest. I am still furious with him over the rumour he started, but his prudence has gone some way to mollifying me.’

‘Our task will not be easy or pleasant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Gyseburne …’

‘Gyseburne what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew trailed off.

‘Gyseburne mentioned several men poisoned in Langelee’s house in York – by Ayera’s cook. They died from eating lily of the valley, which is one of Ayera’s favourite flowers.’

‘Ayera likes flowers?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Toxic ones. And they grow in Newe Inn’s garden, by the pond.’

Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying now? That Ayera killed those four scholars? And that Langelee may have helped him, because they have poisoned people together in the past?’

‘We now have three witnesses – Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce – who claim that Ayera is involved with the raiders, and Langelee was attacked in Newe Inn, which is where a lot of those particular flowers are growing.’

Michael’s eyes were enormous saucers in his plump face. ‘Lord, Matt!’

‘But Gyseburne does not like Ayera,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of ways to exonerate his colleagues despite the evidence that was beginning to build against them. ‘He says he has been afraid of him ever since the incident in York, and I imagine he will be delighted if Ayera is forced to leave the town. Thus he has good reason to twist the truth.’

‘Perhaps,’ nodded Michael. ‘Gyseburne is a sly, selfish fellow with a penchant for the wine barrel. He might well lie to incriminate a man who unsettles him.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether it was worse to believe ill of Ayera or Gyseburne, and uncomfortably, it occurred to him that both could not emerge well from the affair.

‘No one else knows our suspicion that Northwood and the others were poisoned,’ he went on. ‘Well, I mentioned it to Julitta, but everyone else seems convinced that the Devil is responsible.’

‘Or God,’ agreed Michael. ‘But what is your point? That Ayera suggested lily of the valley as the culprit, and so incriminated himself by knowing the real cause of death?’

‘It crossed my mind,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Then we had better hurry,’ said Michael grimly, when Bartholomew began to drag his feet.

But Ayera was not home when they arrived, and none of the other Fellows knew where he had gone. Langelee was missing, too, and although it was not unusual for the Master to disappear of an evening – he had many friends, and often went out when work was finished for the day – his absence that night was worrying.

‘We need to find them,’ said Bartholomew, standing in the conclave and looking around helplessly. Suttone and William were sharing a plate of cakes, and Clippesby was playing with the College cat – back in favour now the rat had deemed places with libraries too dangerous.

‘I know, but they might be anywhere,’ said Michael, exasperated.

There was a flurry of Gilbertine habit and perfumed accessories as Thelnetham arrived. He flopped into a chair, and waved an imperious hand to say that Clippesby should bring him some wine. It was on the tip of Bartholomew’s
tongue to tell him to fetch it himself, but Clippesby shot him a warning glance. The Dominican hated discord, and the look said that pandering to Thelnetham’s supercilious manners was a small price to pay for peace.

‘Have you seen Ayera or Langelee?’ Michael demanded.

‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham, fanning himself with a beringed hand. ‘I passed them when I—’

‘Where were they going?’ interrupted Michael urgently.

Thelnetham frowned. ‘Why? What has Langelee done now? I have always said that he is not the kind of man who should be Master of a College, so it does not surprise me that—’

‘Where were they going?’ repeated Michael angrily.

‘To visit the White Friars,’ replied Thelnetham. He made a moue of distaste. ‘That particular priory is not a place I would set foot in, because Riborowe and Jorz are hardly conducive company. Of course, our Master is not very particular about—’

‘There is nothing wrong with Riborowe and Jorz,’ declared Suttone, rallying to the defence of his Carmelite brethren. Then he frowned. ‘But Langelee never ventures into our friary. He says we are too religious for his taste.’

‘He wanted some ink from its scriptorium,’ elaborated Thelnetham. ‘Apparently, they have invented a new kind, which is said to dry faster than the stuff Weasenham sells.’

‘It is red, too,’ put in Clippesby. ‘And Master Langelee likes red.’

‘Probably because it looks like blood,’ said Thelnetham with haughty contempt. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier.’

‘He
does
like red pigments,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Agatha complained to me not an hour ago that he had just handed her a tabard that was drenched in the stuff.’

He and Thelnetham began a discussion about annoying stains, but Bartholomew did not wait to hear it. He strode
quickly through the hall and clattered down the stairs to the yard, aware of Michael behind him, especially once he started along Milne Street and the monk began to pant.

‘I still do not believe it,’ he said, his mind a whirl of confusion. ‘I cannot see Ayera or Langelee stealing the King’s taxes. Men died in that raid.’

‘“Only soldiers”.’ Michael echoed the geometrician’s chillingly callous words and Bartholomew recalled that he had been so shocked to hear them from the lips of a scholar that he had reported it to the monk. ‘Men who are expendable in battle.’

Bartholomew began to move faster, leaving Michael behind. When he arrived at the Carmelite Priory, he rapped hard on the gate. The doorman took his time answering, and Michael had caught up by the time the grille slid open.

‘God save us!’ the doorman muttered, crossing himself. ‘How did you know you were needed? We only discovered what happened a few moments ago. Perhaps the Corpse Examiner
does
have diabolical powers, and can detect the scent of cadavers.’

Bartholomew was too fraught to ask what he meant. ‘Are Langelee and Ayera here?’

The doorman grunted as he removed the heavy bar that secured the convent after sunset. He yanked open the gate and indicated they were to enter. ‘No, why?’

‘Have they left?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have not seen them. Of course, they could have come in when I was doing my rounds.’

There was a shout, and Etone trotted towards them, all agitated hand gestures and swirling habit. ‘How did you know? We have only just discovered it ourselves.’

‘That is just what I said,’ muttered the doorman, crossing himself again.

‘How did we know about what?’ demanded Michael.

‘Come with me, Brother,’ said Etone grimly. ‘You, too, Matthew.’

They followed him to the scriptorium. The light had begun to fade, so work was finished for the day: lids were on inkpots, pens were laid in neat rows ready for the morning, and half-finished books and scrolls were locked in a chest for safekeeping. At the far end of the room was the little chamber where Jorz and Riborowe experimented. Etone beckoned them towards it.

Jorz was lying face-down in a bowl of ink. He had been sitting at a table, and there was a spoon in his right hand: he had evidently been stirring his potion when he had pitched forward. Red pigment was splattered everywhere.

Carefully, Bartholomew pulled Jorz upright. He was cool to the touch, and there was a stiffness around the jaws that suggested death had occurred some time before. The scribe’s face was stained bright scarlet, and the sight was so disturbing that Bartholomew covered it with a cloth.