Murder by the Book (10 page)

‘I cannot – we have not discovered it yet,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Lamp fuel is—’

‘We do not mean lamp fuel,’ snapped the leader. ‘We mean the other substance.’

‘What other substance?’ Bartholomew rummaged in the medical bag he always wore over his shoulder, and hauled out some childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him. He was rarely called on to help pregnant women, because that was the domain of midwives, but the forceps had served as a weapon more times than he cared to remember. He hated to imagine what Matilde would think if she ever discovered the use to which he usually put them.

‘The one that burns and cannot be doused.’

‘Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing the night was not so dark and he could see his assailants’ faces. ‘I have already told you that I do not know. Now stop this ridiculous charade and—’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ hissed the leader. ‘And it is a valuable secret, so you will appreciate why we do not want you blathering to anyone else. It would not do for our enemies to have it.’

‘Enemies?’ asked Bartholomew, simultaneously alarmed and bemused. ‘What enemies?’

‘Tell us the recipe, or we shall force it from you,’ ordered the leader, adding in a voice that was distinctly menacing, ‘And you will not enjoy that, I promise.’

He nodded to his companions, who stepped forward eagerly. Bartholomew did not wait to find out what they had in mind. He lashed out with the forceps, and caught the leader a blow that made him reel away with a howl of agony. The other two dropped into defensive stances, and Bartholomew could tell from the way they moved that he was in the presence of professionals.

He struck out again, but the biggest ducked and the third man took advantage of his momentary imbalance to knock the forceps from his hand. Then one arm was twisted savagely behind his back, and he was forced to his knees. A blade flashed in the gloom.

‘I will teach you to challenge us,’ snarled the leader. ‘You will regret your lack of cooperation.’

As the weapon began to descend there was a sudden thump and the fellow reeled away with a muted cry, a dagger lodged in his thigh. Then there was a second thud, and the tallest howled and began to dance around on one foot.

‘Run!’ the leader screeched. ‘Quick! He must have beadles watching out for him.’

They fled, two hobbling painfully. Bartholomew waited, but no beadles appeared. The leader was wrong – Michael’s men would have come to accept his thanks if they had been responsible for the rout. So who had saved him? He called out in an unsteady voice, but there was no reply.

After a few moments, he retrieved his forceps and took several steps down St Michael’s Lane, expecting at any moment to feel a searing pain as a knife landed. But none did, and it was with considerable relief that he pounded on the College gates and shouted for the porter to let him in.

He aimed directly for the kitchens, feeling an overpowering need for a drop of medicinal wine, and was just pouring his second cup when a sound behind him made him jump.

‘I am starving,’ said Michael plaintively, although his substantial girth suggested that was unlikely. ‘That thin pottage we had for supper did nothing to quell my hunger, and I shall expire if I do not have something else before morning. You are very pale. What is wrong?’

‘I have just been waylaid by three men eager to know the formula for wildfire,’ explained Bartholomew, taking another large gulp of claret.

Michael regarded him sharply. ‘I thought you said your fellow physicians were drunk when they stumbled across
that particular mixture, and no one can remember exactly what went in it. Of course,
you
were sober. Do you recall what they did?’

Bartholomew looked away. ‘Not precisely.’

‘But you know enough to be able to make some more?’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But please do not tell anyone else.’

Michael watched him finish the wine and pour some more. ‘You do not usually guzzle claret with such gay abandon at this time of night, so I surmise these three men did rather more than “waylay” you. Tell me what happened, Matt.’

In a voice that was still unsteady, Bartholomew obliged. ‘I have no idea who they were,’ he finished. ‘They had disguised themselves with hooded cloaks, and it was dark. They may have been strangers, but they may equally well have been men we know – scholars or townsfolk. Of course, they will be exposed if they walk around town tomorrow, because two of them will be limping.’

‘You fought three villains and emerged victorious?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Lord, Matt! Ever since Poitiers, you have become something of a lion. Perhaps you should abandon medicine and take up the sword instead. Of course, you will have to learn to ride properly first.’

‘Someone drove them off by throwing knives.’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘I could not see who, but he saved my life. Those men meant business …’

‘Then we had better find them,’ said Michael. ‘We do not want you “waylaid” again.’

Bartholomew slept poorly that night, unsettled by his encounter with the three men. He was also plagued by stomach pains, and supposed he must have swallowed tainted water when he had fallen in Newe Inn’s pool. He certainly recalled gulping a good deal of it, and pond water was dangerous at the best of times; when corpses had been soaking in it, he imagined it was deadly.

Afraid his restlessness would disturb the students who shared his room, he rose and left, stepping carefully over the slumbering forms. Although more spacious than most hostels, Michaelhouse was cramped at night, when mattresses were unrolled and laid on the Fellows’ floors for their pupils. The current crush was because the Master had recently enrolled more scholars than they had places for, in order to claim their tuition fees. Some were due to graduate that summer, which was at least partly why Bartholomew was determined that his lads should pass – the College could not house them for another year, should they need to try again.

He stepped into the yard, and breathed in deeply of the pre-dawn air. There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, indicating that dawn was not far off, but it was still dark, and he could only just make out the buildings that had comprised his home for the last fifteen years.

The core of Michaelhouse was an airy, spacious hall, with kitchens, larders and pantries below. At right angles to it were two accommodation wings, and Bartholomew
lived in the older, more decrepit, northern one. The square was completed by a thick wall, against which leaned the stables and the porters’ lodge. A heavy gate led to St Michael’s Lane, making the College as secure a foundation as any in the town.

One hand on his rebellious stomach, Bartholomew walked across the yard, thinking he would pass the hour or so before dawn with some quiet reading. The College ‘library’ comprised a corner of the hall that had been provided with shelves and two lockable chests. The books were either chained to the wall or stored in the boxes, depending on their value and popularity.

Although it did not possess many tomes, Michaelhouse had a Librarian. The post had actually been created to prevent its current holder from qualifying as a physician and venturing out among an unsuspecting public: Robert Deynman had been accepted as a student because his father was rich, not for any academic talent, and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been persuaded to abandon medicine for librarianship. As the position was funded by his proud family, the College was even spared the need to pay him – a blessing when money was so tight.

Bartholomew climbed the spiral staircase, then stopped in surprise when he saw a lamp burning. Deynman was there, and although it was not unusual for Fellows to study at night – it was often the only time they had to themselves – the Librarian was not in the habit of depriving himself of sleep to perform his duties.

‘Rob?’ Bartholomew called softly. ‘Why are you here? Are you unwell?’

Deynman jumped. ‘What are you doing up so early?’

‘I could not sleep.’ Bartholomew frowned when he saw Deynman’s red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. ‘What is the matter? Is your father ill? Or your brother?’

‘They are well,’ sniffed Deynman. ‘It is something else that is destroying my happiness.’

Bartholomew sat next to him, supposing he was about to be regaled with some tale of unrequited love. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me what—’

‘You can do nothing,’ said Deynman bitterly. ‘
You
were one of the villains who voted for it.’

‘The Common Library?’ Bartholomew was bemused, but then understood what was bothering the lad. ‘You are afraid it will render your post obsolete! Well, you need not worry. Master Langelee told me only yesterday that there was no one he trusted more with our books.’

Deynman was unconvinced. ‘But if the likes of you have their way, we shall have no books.’ He ran a loving finger across the one that lay in front of him; its leather cover had been buffed to within an inch of its life, and shone rather artificially. ‘They will all be in this Common Library, where undergraduates will be able to get at them.’

‘But that is a good thing,’ said Bartholomew, struggling not to smile at the disapproval Deynman had managed to inject into the word ‘undergraduates’. ‘They are here to learn, and access to the works they are required to study is—’

‘But they do not need to
handle
them!’ cried Deynman, distraught. ‘They can listen to a master reading. Or, if they must see the words themselves, they can hire an exemplar. They do not need to see the original texts. To
touch
them.’ He shuddered at such a terrible notion.

‘But books are meant to be read,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And—’

‘They are meant to be cherished, not mauled by grubby students. You should have voted properly at the Convocation – you were Michaelhouse’s only dissenter. And you should
be careful, because I heard what happened to Northwood, Vale and the Londons.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

Deynman pursed his lips. ‘Vale voted against the wishes of his Gonville colleagues; the London brothers voted against their friends at Batayl; and Northwood voted against his Carmelites. All supported that evil Common Library. And now they have been murdered for their perfidy.’

Bartholomew supposed that all four had backed the grace to found the Common Library, but that had been six weeks ago, and he was inclined to believe it was coincidence.

‘We do not know for certain that they have been murdered,’ he said, although without much conviction. ‘I have not examined them yet.’

‘Well, when you do, you will find that they are dead by the hand of someone who deplores traitors,’ said Deynman firmly. Then his expression changed from angry to concerned. ‘Are you unwell, sir? You are very pale, and you keep gripping your stomach. Perhaps I had better fetch you some milksops from the kitchens. Do not look alarmed. I shall not poison them.’

‘I did not think you would,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the notion. ‘And I do not need anything to—’

But Deynman had gone, leaving Bartholomew wondering whether he should have voted against the Common Library after all. It would have meant going against his principles, but he compromised those all the time – when he failed to tell people that his more successful medical techniques had been learned from his Arab teacher; when he opted not to share innovative theories with his fellow physicians because he did not want to be accused of heterodoxy; and when he concealed his reliance on certain ‘heretical’ texts.
And opposing the library would certainly have made for a more peaceful life.

He was not feeling much better when dawn came and the bell rang to tell Michaelhouse’s scholars that it was time to attend their morning devotions. He trudged wearily into the yard.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Father William, a grimy Franciscan whose habit was generally considered to be the filthiest garment in Christendom. He also possessed some deeply repellent beliefs, and although Bartholomew had grown used to his ways and had learned to ignore them, the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. ‘You look terrible.’

‘You do,’ agreed Thelnetham, one of the more recent arrivals. ‘Very wan.’

He was a Gilbertine canon and a celebrated scholar of law. He was also brazenly effeminate, and was known for livening up the plain habit of his Order with flamboyant accessories. That morning, there was a purple bow tied around his waist in place of a simple rope cingulum. He and William could not have been more different, and had become bitter and implacable enemies the moment they had set eyes on each other.

‘Shall I fetch you some wine, Matt?’ offered Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who liked horses, dogs and outdoor pursuits. Other than a deep and – to Bartholomew’s mind, at least – irrational aversion to anatomy, he was easy and congenial company, and the physician liked his ready wit, wry humour and dedication to his students.

‘Will your indisposition prevent you from teaching today?’ asked Suttone, the College’s only Carmelite, when Bartholomew shook his head to the offer of strong drink so early in the day. He was a plump man in a creamy white
habit. ‘If so, I decline to mind your class in your absence. The last time I obliged you, they rioted.’

‘Only because you told them the plague would return within the year,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘They tend to believe what senior scholars say, and were worried. When I came back, I was hard pressed to prevent them from leaving Cambridge to warn their loved ones immediately.’

‘But it
will
return within the year,’ declared Suttone. ‘I know I have been saying that for a decade, but this time I am right. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Then let us hope your bones are wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I remember spending the entire time being extremely frightened.’

‘You were right to be,’ declared William loftily. ‘It was God’s judgement on the wicked. I shall survive if it returns, naturally, because I am saintly. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of you miserable sinners.’

He shot a disparaging glance at Thelnetham’s purple bow, then treated every other Fellow to a similarly haughty glare. Except Bartholomew. He had publicly accused the physician of being a warlock the previous summer, and had later been sorry. Guilt and a determination to make amends meant the physician could do no wrong. It would not last, but Bartholomew was finding it pleasant while it did.