Murder by the Book (6 page)

It had been several years since anyone had tended Newe Inn’s grounds and they screamed of neglect and decay. Some weeds were taller than Bartholomew, who was not a short man, while nettles choked what had once been vegetable beds, and the grass was thigh-high. The tavern must have been leased to a long succession of negligent landlords, and he wondered whether Cynric was right to say that Dunning was glad to be rid of the responsibility it would pose.

‘Will anything be done to tame this wilderness before the library opens?’ he asked, trying to fight his way free of a bramble with thorns like talons. It retaliated by ripping his shirt. ‘It is downright dangerous!’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric, kicking viciously at a huge thistle.

‘Dunning declined to renovate the house
and
clear the garden,’ explained Michael, following Browne along a barely discernible path, which ran by the side of the teetering wall that divided Newe Inn from neighbouring Batayl. ‘So Tynkell decided to leave the grounds until next year. Doubtless he will use them to instigate some other foolish plan to see himself immortalised.’

Eventually, they arrived at a large pond where past owners had bred carp and trout. It reeked, although the stench was partly masked by a fragrantly scented patch of lily of the valley to one side, a bright jewel of beauty in a place that was otherwise unsightly. Floating in the middle of the pond, face-down and with an arrow protruding from its back, was the body.

‘Now can you see why I had the audacity to suggest murder?’ asked Browne archly. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. He had never liked the physician, preferring staid traditionalists to those who favoured new ideas. ‘You do not need a Corpse Examiner to tell you that he did not do that to himself.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Michael.

‘His face is in the water and his clothes are black with mud,’ replied Browne tartly. ‘So how am I supposed to know that? However, I can tell you that he is not supposed to be here.’

‘Obviously,’ muttered Cynric. ‘Cadavers bobbing about in fish ponds is hardly right.’

Browne’s lips compressed into a thin line. ‘I meant that no one is supposed to frequent these grounds. They are University property and therefore private.’

Michael regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Yes, they are, which means you should not have been here, either, yet you were the one to raise the alarm. What were you doing?’

Browne looked decidedly furtive. ‘I occasionally slip over the wall to ensure all is well. It is unwise to leave a place unattended too long, and I take my neighbourly responsibilities seriously.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael coolly. ‘However, it does not explain why you were
here
, at this pond. It is far beyond benefiting from philanthropic inspections.’

Browne was defiant. ‘Times are hard, especially for a poor foundation like ours, and there are fish in this pool. You, from rich old Michaelhouse, will not know what it is like to be hungry.’

Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric said nothing, but the truth was that their College was not wealthy at all, and they understood all too well what it was like to exist on meagre rations. They possessed several fine buildings, along with land that kept them supplied with vegetables, but their roofs leaked, they were crippled with debt, and a fire had not burned in the hearth for weeks. Not even a windfall resulting from a recent journey to York had helped them for long.

‘So you are a poacher,’ surmised Michael, fixing Browne with an icy glare. ‘How often do you raid University property, exactly?’

‘Bagging the occasional carp hardly makes me a poacher,’ objected Browne indignantly, although Bartholomew was sure the law would not agree.

‘Was the corpse here yesterday?’ snapped Michael impatiently.

‘If so, I would have reported it then,’ Browne shot back, then added defensively, ‘Not that I visit every day, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘We need to tug him out. I am not sure how, though – he is some distance from the bank.’

Bartholomew fashioned a grappling hook by tying one of his surgical implements on to a piece of twine. Then he flung it towards the body, aiming to snag it and draw it across to him. Unfortunately, it was caught on something below the surface, and the makeshift device was not strong enough to let him pull it free.

‘You had better wade in after him,’ said Michael. ‘Or we shall be here all day.’

‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘My remit is to tell you how he died, not go paddling about in dirty ponds while you stand by and make unhelpful suggestions.’

‘
I
am not going,’ said Cynric firmly, when the monk turned to him. He crossed himself with one hand, while the other gripped a couple of the talismans that hung around his neck. ‘This pool is infested with an evil kind of faerie.’

‘Surely, you have a charm to protect you?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘You seem to be wearing at least four, not to mention pilgrim tokens and a holy relic. No one in Cambridge is better protected from wicked spirits than you.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric comfortably. ‘But I am still not going in that pond.’

‘Nor am I, lest you think to ask,’ said Browne. ‘It is not my responsibility, either.’

‘And I cannot swim,’ added Michael. He grinned rather triumphantly at Bartholomew. ‘So either you must do it, or we shall have to wait until a beadle deigns to arrive.’

As it was nearing the date when his students would take their final disputations, and he was keen to return to College to make sure they were hard at work, Bartholomew sat down and began to untie his boots. Michael was right: it might be some time before a beadle – one of the army of men he hired to keep unruly scholars under control – put in an appearance, because they were still busy ensuring that no trouble was bubbling after the Convocation.

‘It will not take a moment,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Then you can return to terrorising your pupils, and I can continue to soothe ragged tempers over this library. You know what happened the last time our Colleges and hostels took against each other.’

Bartholomew was unlikely to forget the events of the previous February, when a ruthless killer had fanned the flames of dissent between the University’s warring factions. He stood and put one foot in the water, but it was bone-chillingly cold – far more so than he had expected – and he withdrew it hastily.

‘Just jump,’ advised Michael. ‘It will be unpleasant for an instant, but then all you have to do is wade a few steps, grab the corpse and haul it back to us.’

‘There is a platform just under the surface,’ supplied Browne, rather more helpfully. ‘Built to allow servants to walk out and catch the fish with nets. You can see it if you look carefully. Use that.’

Bartholomew saw there was indeed a structure beneath
the water. It was made from old planks, and was black with age and slime. He supposed it would normally be exposed, but recent rains meant the water level was higher than usual. He stepped on to it, wincing at the frigid temperature a second time, and was relieved to find it only reached mid-calf. Gingerly, he moved along it, wondering just how old the planks were, and whether they were stable. The thought had no sooner formed in his mind when he felt them move. He froze in alarm.

‘Stop,’ said Cynric urgently. ‘Come back, and I will—’

The rest of his sentence was lost under a tearing groan. Bartholomew flailed his arms in a desperate effort to keep his balance, but the wood crumbled beneath his feet, and into the pond he went. It was so cold after the warmth of the day that he gasped involuntarily, inhaling water that made him choke. He struck out for the bank, but a piece of planking landed on him and forced him beneath the surface. There, looming in the darkness, was a dead face. Startled, he gulped a second time, swallowing yet more water.

‘You did not bring the body,’ said Browne, grinning his amusement as the physician scrambled up the bank, dripping and disgusted. ‘You will have to go back for it.’

‘I saw it under the water.’ Bartholomew coughed, and Cynric pounded him on the back. ‘Your beadles will have to trawl for it, Brother. I had no idea this pond was so deep.’

‘It
is
deep,’ agreed Browne. ‘The fish would have died years ago, were it not. But the corpse is not under the water, Bartholomew. It has not moved.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw that Browne was right. ‘But I saw a face,’ he said, wondering whether he had imagined it; the pond was murky after all. ‘It floated past me …’

‘There are
two
corpses,’ cried Cynric, the shrillness of his voice making everyone jump. ‘I told you this place was evil!’

Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and saw the unmistakable shape of a second body, bobbing a short distance from the first.

‘Actually, there are three,’ breathed Michael, gesturing in entirely another direction. ‘Lord save us! It is a veritable graveyard!’

It was late afternoon by the time the beadles had completed an initial dredge of the pond. The first body had been snagged on the underwater structure, and it had taken three of them to haul it free; the other corpses had been recovered by dropping hooks into the water. The pond released a foul odour as it was disturbed, and several beadles claimed to feel faint, so Michael sent Cynric to fetch Bartholomew, who had gone home. The physician arrived to find the men sullen and fearful, but was unsympathetic when he learned why.

‘The smell is
not
the Devil’s breath,’ he said firmly, glaring at his book-bearer as he did so – he knew exactly who had put that thought into their minds. ‘It is just stagnant water.’

‘We found four bodies in the end,’ said Michael, pointing to a row of shrouded shapes. ‘And a bucketful of bones that could represent yet more unfortunates.’

Bartholomew inspected them quickly. ‘Chickens and geese, Brother, from the tavern’s table. And one or two cats that must have tried to catch the fish and tumbled in. The sides of the pond are steep, and if the water was low, it might be difficult to climb out again.’

‘No, the evil faeries had them,’ countered Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Cats have excellent balance, and do not fall into pools while hunting. And even if they did, they can swim.’

‘Normally, I would ask you to examine these bodies – the human ones, I mean – immediately,’ said Michael,
ignoring him and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are all tired, so it can wait. My beadles will take them to St Mary the Great, and you can look at them tomorrow, when inconsiderate book-bearers are not making unsettling remarks about demonic spirits and the like.’

‘But it is true,’ objected Cynric, stung. ‘I told you this garden had a sinister aura, and the presence of corpses here proves it.’

‘I had better do it now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tale is already out that bodies have been found, and people have gathered in the lane outside, clamouring to know names. Apparently, several people have gone missing over the last few weeks, and their loved ones are eager for answers. Perhaps, like Browne, these four had a penchant for Newe Inn’s fish.’

‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘One careless poacher might have fallen in, or even two, but not more.’

Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the first. The body was fresh, and he doubted it had been immersed for more than a day. He inspected it quickly.

‘There is no sign of a slit throat. Or any other wound for that matter, although I will look more carefully tomorrow.’

Michael frowned. ‘A slit throat?’

‘Like the beggar, Tulyet’s night-watchman and Adam,’ explained Bartholomew. He shrugged at the monk’s bemused expression. ‘You are right in that four people are unlikely to have died of natural causes here, so unless we have two killers on the loose …’

‘But Dick said the others were probably executed because they saw smugglers. Smugglers will not be operating in the grounds of Newe Inn, so the two cases cannot possibly be connected.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He stared at the corpse’s unfamiliar features. Its clothes indicated a
man of some substance, because they were of excellent quality and almost new. The same was true of the next victim, who bore an uncanny likeness to the first. Both had deeply ink-stained fingers.

‘Have any brothers been reported missing?’ he asked. ‘Clerks, perhaps, or scribes?’

‘Yes – and you were there when it happened.’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Philip and John London, who work in the stationer’s shop. Weasenham mentioned they were late for work today.’

‘He also said they were members of Batayl,’ said Bartholomew, glancing in its direction. ‘Which lies next door, and whose scholars raised the alarm about a corpse here.’

‘Not
these
corpses, though. They were underwater, and invisible until you stirred them up.’

‘Are these the London brothers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I never met them.’

Michael peered at them. ‘Yes, more is the pity. They have helped Weasenham quietly and efficiently ever since the Death.’

The plague that had scoured the civilised world, killing entire communities in a matter of days, had been such a terrible experience that people nearly always used it to refer to events in the past – everything was either before the Death or after it. Bartholomew covered the brothers, and removed the blanket that had been placed over the next victim.

‘Northwood!’ he exclaimed in horror. He looked up at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘He is the Carmelite who voted in favour of the Common Library – against the wishes of his colleagues. I liked him, Brother. He gave my fellow
medici
and me some helpful advice about developing our clean-burning lamp fuel.’

‘I knew him only by reputation – for his lively mind and interest in alchemy. Who is the last?’

Bartholomew pulled the cover from the fourth body, and pushed the sodden hair away from its face. It was the one with the arrow in its back. He recoiled with shock a second time.

‘It is Vale,’ he said in a voice that was not quite steady. ‘The Gonville Hall physician. No wonder he was not at the Convocation earlier! His colleagues mentioned his absence, if you recall.’