Murder by the Book (45 page)

‘Three victims supported the Common Library,’ said Michael tentatively, ‘while two were—’

Pelagia slapped her hand on the table irritably. ‘No! The killer could not have predicted it would be Rolee who would break his neck when the stair broke, or that it would be Kente who was bitten by the snake. The point was to make scholars think that libraries are dangerous. The victims’ identities are irrelevant to him.’

‘So the culprit is a library detractor,’ surmised Michael. ‘But the knowledge does not help us.’

‘Of course, it does,’ coaxed Pelagia. ‘Consider the death that does not seem to fit with the others. That is the one that will give you the key to the killer. Which death was different from the rest – more brutal, less subtle and perhaps more personal?’

‘Coslaye’s?’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He was brazenly murdered, whereas the others could ostensibly be accidents.’

‘Yes,’ said Pelagia encouragingly. ‘Go on.’

‘Is the culprit Pepin, then?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Because Coslaye painted a rather grim mural of a battle in which he doubtless lost friends and family, and rage led him to batter out his Principal’s brains? He did not plan it carefully like the others, but attacked in a blind fury?’

Pelagia rolled her eyes. ‘How could a mere student gain access to Colleges and the Carmelite Priory? However, your analysis of the crime and the killer’s motivation is probably correct.’

‘Browne!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The man who has been spreading the tale that libraries are dangerous! He and Coslaye quarrelled constantly, and Coslaye was a violent man himself. An altercation may well have led to a murder committed on the spur of the moment. And Browne became Principal of Batayl once Coslaye was dead.’

‘At last!’ muttered Pelagia. ‘I thought we would never get there. Now go and arrest him.’

‘We cannot,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘He is missing.’

Pelagia looked exasperated. ‘It is summer and the nights are mild. Sleeping outside is no hardship, especially to a man who is wont to frequent a certain garden, poaching fish …’

As Bartholomew and Michael hurried to Cholles Lane, they were astonished to see that dawn was not far off – at which point Corpus Christi would be upon them with all its attendant problems. The gate that led to Newe Inn’s garden was locked, but Michael had a key.

‘These grounds are extensive,’ he said, fumbling in his haste to insert it. ‘Do you think we should summon my beadles? It would not do to let Browne slip through our fingers.’

Bartholomew held up his hand. He had heard a noise.

‘There cannot be anyone here,’ whispered Michael. ‘The work is finished. It should be empty.’

‘Well, it is not,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I can hear hammering inside the library.’

They crept forward, and saw a light gleaming in one of the upper windows. The front door was ajar, so they stepped inside and made for the stairs. Bartholomew’s boots made far too much noise on the wooden steps, but he was as silent as a mouse compared to Michael. Fortunately, the trespasser was more intent on his own work than creaks from the stairwell, and when they reached the room holding the
libri distribuendi
, they saw him busily defacing one of the carvings with a mallet. He had lit a candle to see what he was doing, and it illuminated a face filled with malicious savagery.

‘Browne!’ exclaimed Michael.

Browne spun around, drawing a knife and holding it in a way that showed he was ready to lob it. ‘You should not be here,’ he snarled.

‘Neither should you,’ retorted Michael. ‘We know what you have done – and I do not refer to your despoiling of Walkelate’s artwork. I mean murder.’

Bartholomew winced. It was no way to address an armed man. He fumbled in his medical bag for the childbirth
forceps, but they were tangled in a bandage, and would not come free.

‘Drop your sack on the floor,’ ordered Browne immediately. ‘And put your hands in the air. Both of you. I am good with knives, and I have two of them. I will kill you if you disobey me.’

The fierce determination in his face told Bartholomew that he would be wise to do as he was told. The bag fell with a thud, although he managed to palm a pot of salve first.

‘My beadles are waiting outside,’ lied Michael. ‘This is over, Browne. Put down the weapon before more blood is spilled – including your own.’

‘I cannot stop now,’ said Browne, glancing out of the window. ‘I have won! Scholars are frightened of what might happen to them in libraries, and this vile place will founder from lack of support – especially when it cannot open today because it is damaged. Of course, that will pale into insignificance compared to what else will happen this morning.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘I have been sleeping in the garden here – to go about my business without nosy students clamouring questions at me – and I overheard the robbers talking in the lane outside.’

‘I suppose it was you that I almost caught poking about by the pond on Saturday night,’ surmised Michael. Browne nodded, and started to answer, but the monk overrode him. ‘Never mind that. What did these villains say?’

‘They were discussing their plan for today,’ Browne gloated. ‘The one that will go down in the annals of history as the most cataclysmic event ever to befall this town.’

‘Then you must help us stop it,’ ordered Michael, alarmed. ‘This is your home, too, and—’

‘I shall
use
it,’ declared Browne viciously. ‘I shall ensure that all these suspicious deaths
and
the raid are blamed on the Common Library. That God smote Cambridge for founding one.’

‘That is lunacy!’ whispered Bartholomew, appalled. ‘It is—’

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and before Bartholomew or Michael could shout a warning, Walkelate had bustled in. The architect’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw he had visitors.

‘Have you come to help me prepare for—’ Then he saw the destruction Browne’s mallet had wrought, and his face crumpled in horror and dismay. ‘No! Oh, no! What have you done?’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Browne. There was a wild light in his eyes: he had not expected to be caught, and fear and agitation were turning him dangerous.

Walkelate’s jaw dropped in shock when he saw the knife. ‘I do not understand! What—’

‘I said shut up!’ snarled Browne. ‘Now stand against the wall, and put your hands on your heads. The first man to make a hostile move is dead. And so is the second.’

With no alternative, Bartholomew and Michael did as they were told. Walkelate, stunned and bewildered, opened his mouth to argue, but the monk hauled him to where Browne had indicated.

‘Give up, Browne,’ he urged softly. ‘You cannot win now. Too many people know—’

‘What do they know?’ sneered Browne. ‘No one knows anything.’

‘We know it was you who threw the book at Coslaye during the Convocation,’ said Bartholomew. He was aware of Michael’s surprise at the claim. ‘We thought it was an accident – an act of frustration rather than an
attempt to kill. But we were wrong: you did intend murder.’

Browne blanched. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘It was a perfect opportunity,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘A lot of scholars were angry with him for speaking out against this library, and you knew that they – not you – would be suspects. Unfortunately for you, Coslaye had an unusually thick skull.’

‘Why would I kill my Principal?’ demanded Browne. ‘You are out of your wits, just like he was! Poitiers addled you!’

‘For two reasons,’ replied Bartholomew with a calm he did not feel. ‘First, because you disapproved of his obsession with the French wars. Batayl was originally called St Remegius—’

‘Batayl is a ridiculous name,’ spat Browne. ‘I shall change it now I am Principal.’

‘And second, because you wanted Coslaye’s post,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘But you will never have it. You have murdered too many people.’

‘Who else’s life has he taken?’ asked Walkelate in a small, frightened voice.

‘Sawtre’s fate gave you the idea,’ said Bartholomew, continuing to address Browne. ‘And then you went out and killed Rolee, Teversham, Kente and Jorz in sly ways that were intended to make people think that libraries were dangerous places to be. But you left clues.’

‘I never did! I was supremely careful.’ Browne grimaced his annoyance when he realised the remark was an admission of guilt. ‘They were all accidents – Rolee was not meant to break his neck; the adder was never meant to kill Kente; and I would not have had to strangle Teversham if he had stayed down after I knocked him into the lectern. However, I did
not
kill Jorz.’

‘God help us!’ breathed Walkelate, white-faced. ‘How could you have done such dreadful things?’

‘Because this damned library should never have come into existence!’ Browne rounded on him with fury. ‘It was born out of the Chancellor’s selfish desire to be remembered, and my fellow Regents should have voted against it. Newe Inn should have come to Batayl.’

‘But Coslaye was—’ began Walkelate.

‘He was a liability,’ Browne went on, cutting across him in his eagerness to spill the vitriol he had suppressed for so long. ‘Did you know he was helping the raiders? I know times are hard, but there are other ways to raise capital. And his savage temper made Batayl a laughing stock.
I
should have been Principal – I would have been, if Bartholomew had not saved Coslaye with his stupid surgery. You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate him for that.’

‘How did you choose your victims?’ asked Michael quickly, when Browne’s arm started to go back, all his pent-up rage and frustration focused on the physician.

‘I did not choose them,’ snarled Browne. ‘I just laid traps, and Rolee, Kente and Teversham were the ones who happened to walk into them.’

‘Did you kill Northwood, the London brothers and Vale, too?’ asked Walkelate unsteadily.

‘No!’ Browne’s livid glare went from Bartholomew to the architect. ‘I was as shocked as anyone to discover bodies in the pond where I go fishing.’

‘Please give up, Browne,’ begged Michael, glancing towards the window, where the sky was already pale blue. ‘Time is of the essence, and there has already been too much bloodshed.’

But Browne’s reply was to take aim again, his eyes blazing with hatred and rage. All Bartholomew could do
to stop him was to lob the salve he had palmed, which he did with all his might. It missed by a considerable margin, but it was enough to spoil Browne’s aim. Michael cringed as the blade thudded into the panelling by his shoulder.

The resulting damage to the fine woodwork was more than Walkelate could bear. With a bellow of outrage he charged, fists flailing wildly. Browne flung up his hands to defend himself, and Walkelate’s momentum carried them both into the nearest bookcase. It teetered as they fell to the floor, depositing several heavy volumes and the bust of Aristotle on top of them.

‘You scoundrel!’ Walkelate sobbed as he pounded the culprit. ‘My beautiful library! What would poor Kente say if he could see what you have done?’

Bartholomew hauled him away and shoved him into Michael’s arms, although he could already tell that something was badly amiss with Browne.

‘His skull is cracked,’ he said after a brief examination. ‘He is dead.’

Walkelate stopped struggling, and what little colour remained in his face drained away. ‘You mean I have killed him?’ he whispered, wrath turning quickly to horror. ‘But I did not hit him that hard – not nearly as hard as he deserved!’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The fatal wound came from Aristotle. His Principal was blessed with an unusually thick skull, but it seems Browne has an unusually thin one.’

There was nothing to be done for Browne, except to wrap him in his cloak ready to be taken to St Botolph’s Church. Bartholomew and Michael worked in silence, the only sound being Walkelate’s shocked whimpers, as his eyes went from the body to the damage that had been inflicted
on his exquisite carvings. He did not seem to know which was worse.

‘Will presenting Browne as the villain be enough to avert trouble today, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked.

Michael rubbed his eyes with fingers that shook. ‘I do not know. It would have been better to present a living suspect – a corpse looks contrived. And Batayl will deny the charges, of course.’

‘Browne was lying,’ said Walkelate, regarding the body with a mixture of anger and distress. ‘He denied killing Northwood and the others, but I wager you anything you like that he
did
poison them as they experimented.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you say they were poisoned? We have not mentioned that theory to anyone else.’

‘Other than Julitta, apparently,’ muttered Michael. ‘And possibly Ayera.’

Walkelate shrugged. ‘Four men do not die of natural causes all at once, and Dunning told me that you found no signs of violence on their bodies. What else is left but poison?’

‘Everyone else seems to believe that God or the Devil is responsible.’ Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet Clippesby and Riborowe said those four dead men met here on a regular basis, and it is unlikely that they could have done it every time without you noticing. You spend all your time here, after all. And the answer is that
you
were experimenting with them!’