Murder by the Book (47 page)

Riborowe broke into a run when he saw Bartholomew and Michael bearing down on him, his skeletal legs pumping furiously as he tore towards his friary. He moved fast, and had reached St Mary the Great before Bartholomew managed to bring him down with a flying tackle. He struggled, spat and scratched furiously until Michael arrived to help secure him.

‘Walkelate,’ growled the monk, seizing him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Where is he?’

‘I have no idea,’ snapped Riborowe. ‘But if you think to accuse me of helping Northwood cheat the friary over those exemplars, then you have the wrong man. It was Jorz.
He
was the one who told Northwood how many to expect, and which ones could be declared inferior. He confessed it to me the night he died. He, Northwood and Walkelate were experimenting together.’

‘Then why did you not tell me immediately?’ demanded Michael angrily.

‘Because I am frightened of
him
,’ shouted Riborowe, jabbing a bony finger at Bartholomew. ‘It was unnerving when he appeared so soon after we discovered Jorz’s
corpse, especially given that Jorz had seen him releasing Satan’s familiar by the river.’

Michael grimaced his exasperation. ‘Tell me about Walkelate and his love of weapons.’

‘Why do you—’ Riborowe saw the dangerous expression on the monk’s face and began to gabble. ‘He is especially interested in ribauldequins, and we worked together on the one the Sheriff built for the King. He imposed some peculiar modifications, although he declined to tell me why. He made a second one, too, but I do not know where he keeps it.’

‘A second one?’ cried Bartholomew in dismay. He turned to Michael. ‘Supposing the raiders already have it?’

Michael regarded the Carmelite in distaste. ‘And you accuse Matt of dealing with the Devil! He cures people, while you devise ways to kill them.’

‘I am not the only one,’ bleated Riborowe. ‘Northwood was interested in artillery, too. He pretended to find it shocking, and refused to help the Sheriff, but in reality he was fascinated by it.’

‘Tell me about the second ribauldequin,’ ordered Michael. ‘How is it different from Tulyet’s?’

‘I do not know. Walkelate and Northwood never let me see the final result.’ Riborowe freed himself from the monk’s grasp and backed away. ‘I am going to leave Cambridge today. It is too full of men with alarming ideas. I shall join a convent in another town – one without mad experimenters and Corpse Examiners running riot.’

‘Hypocrite!’ spat Michael, watching him scuttle away. ‘He knows he has contributed to something terrible, but is not man enough to admit it.’

‘Why are you letting him go?’ asked Bartholomew, agitated and unhappy. ‘He is our only lead to Walkelate.’

‘He does not know where Walkelate is, or what his plans
are. Walkelate has been using him, pumping him for technical information while telling him nothing in return. And I suspect Walkelate did the same with Jorz, Northwood, Vale and the London brothers.’

Bartholomew was not so sure, but there was no time to discuss it. ‘How do we find Walkelate now?’

‘By interrogating another of his accomplices,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Gyseburne will be—’

‘Holm,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘We should check Holm first because … because he lives nearer, and you are tired.’

Michael shot him a rueful glance for his transparency, but turned towards Cholles Lane anyway. All along the High Street, houses were being bedecked with red blossoms, and the churches had their doors open. The flowers smelled strong, and Bartholomew was uncomfortably reminded of Ayera and his penchant for poisonous blooms. Everywhere, people were greeting each other cheerfully, and scholars and townsfolk alike were girding themselves up for fun.

‘You
must
postpone the library’s opening – at least, until we find Walkelate,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael nodded. ‘Yes. Although Dunning will never forgive us …’

‘Tell Dick to cancel the pageant, too. Every dignitary and cleric in Cambridge plans to take part in it, while virtually every man, woman and child will be watching. We cannot let it go ahead when we fear an atrocity in the making. It would be immoral.’

‘What about the plan to lure the raiders here, so we can engage them in battle?’ panted Michael. ‘They will not come if the ceremonies are called off, and Shropham was right – we cannot endure weeks of uncertainty while we wait for their next assault.’

‘Dick thought Shropham’s plan reckless, and so did Dame Pelagia. The Guild of Corpus Christi has supported it, but only because cancelling the event will lose them money. Dick should do as he suggested last night – declare a state of military law until the robbers have been caught.’

Michael was silent for a moment, then burst out with, ‘But wildfire, Matt! I do not think that Walkelate would unleash such a terrible substance on us.’

‘He took two of the most wicked weapons ever to be invented, and combined them. How can you even think that such a man has a conscience?’

Michael waylaid two passing beadles, and sent one to the castle with the recommendation that the Sheriff postpone the pageant, and the other to Dunning, to explain why he was going to be deprived of his moment of glory. Then he and Bartholomew ran the short distance to Holm’s house, which they found with all its windows shuttered and its door closed. They exchanged a glance: was the fact that the surgeon had declined to lower his guard evidence that he knew what was about to befall the town?

‘I will wait a few moments, then knock,’ said Michael. ‘You go around the back, to make sure he does not escape. Here is a dagger.’

Bartholomew had not known Michael was armed, and was unsettled that the monk should think such draconian measures necessary. Without a word, he took the weapon, and eased down a smelly alley until he reached a gate. It was unlocked, so he opened it and stepped into Holm’s yard.

He was startled to see the surgeon slumped over a garden table. There was no sign of Walkelate. He approached cautiously, and saw a lump on the back of Holm’s head; ropes secured his hands and feet. He felt for a life-beat, and at his touch, Holm’s eyelids flickered open. The
surgeon moaned and cursed his way back to wakefulness, while Bartholomew struggled to unravel the knots.

‘Who did this to you?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Quickly, man! Speak!’

‘Walkelate,’ groaned Holm. ‘It happened last night, and I have been stuck out here ever since. Thank God you came to save me.’

‘Why did he hit you?’ demanded Bartholomew, agitation and concern making him rougher with the ropes and his questions than he might otherwise have been.

‘You are unsympathetic, because of Isnard,’ said Holm sullenly. ‘He claims I tried to poison him, because it transpires that he is innocent of wrongdoing and I owe you five marks.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you know—’

‘But I only used a mild dose of henbane,’ Holm went on. ‘I would not have given him any, but he was gloating about me having to pay you, and I could not help myself.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Isnard was right? You did try to dispatch him?’

‘Not dispatch,’ corrected Holm, rubbing his abused wrists. ‘Teach him a lesson. And I shall give you your five marks as soon as I am married.’

‘You will pay me from Julitta’s dowry? I hardly think that is right.’

‘No?’ pounced Holm. ‘I am glad you think so. I shall keep it for myself, then.’

It was no time to discuss money. ‘Did you know that your lover is a murderer? He has just confessed to killing several scholars in order to frighten them out of libraries.’

Holm squinted up at him, and Bartholomew felt uncharitably disappointed when he saw the astonishment in his eyes. He could tell it was genuine. The surgeon blew out his cheeks as he assimilated the information.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Who would have thought it? I know he was always saying that times are hard, but to kill to make them better … Oh, well. I was beginning to tire of him, anyway, and I can do a lot better for myself, even if his cousin does know the King.’

Bartholomew did not care about the surgeon’s ambitions. ‘Where is Walkelate now?’

‘I have no idea. And I cannot imagine why he hit me, either. All I did was offer to spruce up his library – I decided it would do my reputation no harm to be associated with the finished product, you see. Besides, it was an excuse to be away from the annoying Julitta.’

With difficulty, Bartholomew ignored the last remark. ‘He hit you for wanting to help him?’

At that moment, Michael appeared. ‘The door was unlocked, so I—’ He gaped in confusion when he saw Holm holding his head and the ropes on the ground. ‘What happened?’

‘I suppose I was rather insistent,’ admitted Holm, continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘However, he did not have to resort to violence. I would have desisted eventually.’

‘He could not take the risk that you would foist yourself on him anyway.’ Bartholomew spoke more to himself than the surgeon. ‘I suspect he had a lot to do last night. Tell us what you recall.’

‘Me begging to accompany him, and him saying that he was too busy. I told him I did not require entertaining, and I suppose we quarrelled. The next thing I knew was him coming at me with the hilt of a dagger. I am lucky he did not skewer me.’

‘You hired singers to entertain the craftsmen at Newe Inn the night Northwood and the others died,’ began Michael. ‘Why did you choose that particular night to be generous?’

‘Because Walkelate said it would be a kindness, and I was keen to stay on his good side. He is an important member of King’s Hall, as I have said before.’

Again, Bartholomew knew Holm was telling the truth; the open selfishness had the ring of honesty about it. ‘Clearly, Walkelate wanted to drown out any sounds his accomplices might have made doing God knows what in the garden,’ he said to Michael.

‘Yes,’ agreed the monk. ‘And now we had better look for him in Gyseburne’s home, where we should have gone in the first place.’

‘He will not be there,’ said Holm. He shrugged rather sheepishly. ‘Ayera told me a tale that Gyseburne’s mother is a witch, and I repeated it to Walkelate, thinking he would find it amusing, but he was appalled, and has avoided the fellow ever since. But why are you so eager to find him?’

‘Because it transpires that he has an unsavoury interest in artillery,’ explained Michael tersely. ‘And because we fear that he may be in league with men who want to use some on our town.’

Holm considered the accusation, then nodded slowly. ‘He might. He is interested in armaments, and he has been meeting villainous men for weeks. French-speaking men. I overheard him arranging to sell them something a fortnight or so ago. He told me that they were visiting scholars from Paris, but I did not believe him. They were warriors without a doubt.’

‘We have not had visiting scholars from Paris for months,’ said Michael immediately, who as Senior Proctor was in a position to know.

‘Are you saying that the raiders are French?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. But then he recalled that the ones he had encountered had spoken that language.

‘Well they are rather more than common brigands,’ said Holm curtly. ‘Or they would not be so damned persistent.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was hearing. ‘We think Walkelate has invented a wildfire-spitting ribauldequin, and we are at war with France. Selling Frenchmen weapons – or even plans and formulae – amounts to treason!’

‘Only if he is caught,’ said Holm. ‘And he told me himself that he is cleverer than you.’

‘I thought he was your friend,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could point out that siding with the French at Poitiers had hardly been an act of patriotism. suspicious of the surgeon’s disloyal revelations. ‘How can you betray his confidences so readily?’

‘He forfeited my friendship when he hit me on the head,’ said Holm with a pout. ‘Besides, I have my reputation to consider. I do not want to be associated with treason.’

‘Think very carefully,’ instructed Michael, before Bartholomew could point out that siding with the French at Poitiers had hardly been an act of patriotism. ‘Can you suggest anywhere he might be? He is not at King’s Hall or his library.’

Holm frowned, still rubbing his wrists, while Bartholomew struggled with the urge to grab him by the throat in an effort to speed up his ponderings.

‘Try the Carmelites’ scriptorium,’ he said eventually. ‘He mentioned buying some labels there.’

‘Go to the castle and tell the Sheriff everything we have just reasoned,’ ordered Michael, turning to leave. ‘Even the parts you do not understand. It is a matter of life and death, so do it immediately – as quickly as you can run.’

‘He will not oblige,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the surgeon with loathing. ‘Just as he did not bother to raise
the alarm when Rougham and I were accosted. He ran straight home and shut himself safely inside. If he had been braver, we might have been rescued before Rougham revealed the secret of wildfire to what we now suspect were French spies!’

‘That was different,’ objected Holm indignantly. ‘It was dark then, and I was frightened.’

‘You will do as I ask,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Or you may find your wealthy bride-to-be hears certain nasty truths about her beloved fiancé.’

Holm’s face was a mask of furious resentment as Michael turned on his heel and stalked out. Bartholomew stared at him for a moment, then followed.

‘We cannot trust him, Brother,’ he warned. ‘He is more likely to run straight to Julitta, and start spinning yarns as to why your accusations are untrue.’

‘He would not dare.’ Michael broke into the waddle that passed as a run for him. ‘He knew my threat was in earnest. Besides, what else can we do? We do not have time to explain everything to another messenger. Holm will come through, Matt. He has too much to lose by failing.’

Bartholomew was unconvinced, but they had reached the Carmelite Priory, and he was obliged to turn his thoughts back to Walkelate. The convent was deserted; the friars and their servants were in the chapel, singing gustily as they performed the first of many offices that would take place that day. He and Michael tore across the yard to the scriptorium. It, too, was empty, except for one man who was busily rifling through some ledgers, his hands stained red with ink.