Murder by the Book (12 page)

A porter conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the building that housed the College’s collection of books. Somewhat unusually, King’s Hall had elected to store them in purpose-built, ceiling-high racks – most University foundations preferred their shelving to be nearer the ground for ease of access. The racks were heavy, especially when filled, and one had toppled forward, shooting its contents across the floor. All that could be seen of the man underneath was a hand. Bartholomew knelt quickly and felt for a life-beat, but the wrist was cold and dead.

At least twenty King’s Hall Fellows had gathered around the corpse in a mute semicircle. In the middle was their Warden, a timid, retiring gentleman, who struggled to control the large number of arrogant, wealthy young men under his supervision. Walkelate was there, too, tearful and frightened, and Bartholomew recalled that the architect and Sawtre were the only two members of King’s Hall who had voted in favour of the Common Library. He felt a twinge of unease, recalling what Deynman had said about dissenters being eliminated.

‘We could see that there was no need to pull Sawtre out quickly,’ said Warden Shropham, breaking into his troubled thoughts. ‘So we left everything as we found it, for you to …’

He trailed off, clearly distressed, and a brash scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as great as he thought it was, came to rest a kindly hand on his shoulder.

‘Sawtre was dusting the shelves,’ Dodenho explained. ‘Which was his particular responsibility. We heard a crash, and rushed in to see the bookcase had torn away from its moorings.’

He pointed, and Bartholomew and Michael both looked upwards. There were six sizeable holes in the wall, and when they glanced back to the bookcase, it was to see six corresponding nails jutting out from the back of it.

‘He must have tugged on it, reaching for the top shelf,’ said Walkelate, pale and shaking. ‘The floor is not very level, you see, and there was always a danger that this particular unit might topple.’

‘Then why did you not do something about it?’ asked Michael, prodding the floorboards with his toe. They were indeed uneven.

‘We were going to,’ said Shropham wretchedly. ‘At the end of term, when our students have finished their disputations. Mending it will be noisy, and we wanted to avoid needless disturbance at such a stressful time.’

A number of Fellows stepped forward to lift the rack, eager to play their part for a fallen comrade. It was extremely weighty, and required every one of them. Once it was upright, Bartholomew began removing the books that covered Sawtre’s body, picking them up carefully and handing them to Dodenho, who piled them neatly and lovingly to one side.

Despite the fact that his mind should have been on the duties for which he was being paid, the physician noticed that King’s Hall had some unusual and beautiful volumes, including several on medicine that he had never read. He wondered if Shropham would grant him access to them, but then thought that he might not have to ask if the Common Library lived up to expectations.

‘I wonder if it is divine justice,’ mused Dodenho, brushing dust from Dante’s
Inferno
. ‘Sawtre voted inappropriately at the Convocation, and now he is dead in the very library he wronged.’

‘He did not wrong this library,’ objected Walkelate. He sounded dispirited: like Bartholomew, he was tired of repeating himself to colleagues who were so vehemently and immovably opposed to his point of view. ‘He supported the founding of a central repository because he felt poor scholars deserve access to books, too.’

‘You would say that,’ muttered Dodenho. ‘You voted with him – against our Warden’s orders.’

‘Actually, I told everyone to act as his conscience dictated,’ said Shropham quietly.

‘Quite,’ said Dodenho. ‘
My
conscience would never let me do anything to harm King’s Hall.’

Other Fellows joined the discussion, but Bartholomew was not listening – he had finally moved enough books to allow him to examine the body. He was vaguely aware of the debate growing acrimonious, and of Michael standing silently to one side, drawing his own conclusions from who said what, but his own attention was on Sawtre.

‘He was crushed,’ he said, eventually finishing his examination and standing up. Immediately, the squabbling stopped and the men of King’s Hall eased closer to hear his verdict. ‘The bookcase landed squarely on his chest,
and its weight snapped the ribs beneath. These pierced his lungs. I imagine death came very quickly.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ said Shropham, crossing himself.

Walkelate began to sob, so Dodenho put an arm around his shoulders and led him away, leaving the remaining Fellows to discuss what had happened in shocked whispers.

‘Was it a mishap, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Or did one of Sawtre’s “grieving” colleagues arrange an accident in order to punish him for dissenting?’

‘They seem genuinely distressed to me,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And there is nothing on the body to suggest foul play – no sign that Sawtre was forced to stand under the case while it was toppled, or that he was incapacitated while the deed was done.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But he makes five Regents dead who voted in favour of the Common Library. If we held a second ballot now, the grace would be repealed.’

‘Then it is just as well a second ballot is not in the offing,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Newe Inn is almost ready, and there would be a riot if you abandoned the project at this late hour.’

‘I have a bad feeling we shall have one of those anyway. Its more rabid detractors will not let the opening ceremonies pass off without incident.’

There was no more to be done at King’s Hall, so Bartholomew wrapped Sawtre’s body, ready to be carried to the church, and followed Michael towards the gate. Shropham accompanied them.

‘I know how this looks,’ he said, when there was no one to overhear. ‘Sawtre went against his colleagues, and now he is dead. However, it was an accident.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yet you cannot deny that there was ill feeling among the Fellowship towards him. And despite what you said in the library, I am sure you must have made it perfectly clear how you wanted them all to vote.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘I am not a despot. I instructed every man to act as he thought appropriate. I imagine you did the same at Michaelhouse.’

‘Actually, I told my colleagues to oppose the grace with every fibre of their being,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at Bartholomew. ‘But not all of them obeyed.’

‘It must be awkward for Walkelate here,’ said Bartholomew, pitying the kindly architect for the uncomfortable position he occupied, especially now he had lost Sawtre’s support. ‘He not only voted for the library, but he is the one fitting it out.’

Shropham sighed. ‘Well, if we must have the wretched place, it is only right that the University’s best architect should design it. Walkelate produced a book-depository for the King, you know, in Westminster.’

‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘Are there many books in the royal collections?’

Shropham gave one of his sad smiles. ‘None that will interest you, Matthew. They nearly all pertain to law and property.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So how did Walkelate come to be chosen for such a task?’

‘Because his father is the King’s sergeant-at-arms,’ explained Shropham. ‘So Walkelate is known at Court, and the Lord Chancellor is a great admirer of his work.’

‘You mean his father is a soldier?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael shot him a patronising look. ‘It is an honorific post, Matt. They see to ceremonials and the like. It has nothing to do with warfare.’

‘Although Walkelate did receive knightly training in his youth,’ added Shropham. ‘But like most of us, that was rather a long time ago.’

Once out of King’s Hall, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their walk to St Mary the Great, and it was not long before they reached its bright splendour. Sunlight filtered through its stained-glass windows, casting bright flecks of colour on the stone floor, and there was a pleasant aroma of incense and from the greenery that bedecked its windowsills.

The four bodies had been placed in the Lady Chapel, where they lay in a line on the floor, each covered with a blanket. Water had seeped from them during the night, leaving puddles. Michael watched Bartholomew remove the cover from the first victim, but promptly disappeared on business of his own when the physician began his examination by prising open the corpse’s mouth. As Senior Proctor, he had an office in one of the aisles – larger and better furnished than the one occupied by the Chancellor, as befitted his status as the University’s most powerful scholar – and it was a far nicer place to be than watching his Corpse Examiner at work.

Bartholomew had started with Vale, because he happened to be the nearest. Deftly, he removed his colleague’s clothes, so he could look for injuries or suspicious marks, but there was only one: the puncture wound between his shoulder blades. The arrow’s shaft had been snipped off to facilitate transport the previous day, but its head was still in place, and he was surprised by how easy it was to remove. Puzzled, he took a probe and inserted it into the hole. The laceration was shallow, and unlikely to have been fatal.

He turned Vale on to his back, and pushed on his chest
– if froth bubbled from the nose and mouth, it meant water had mixed with air in the lungs. In other words, the victim had drowned. But what seeped from Vale was clear, and there was not a bubble in sight. He began a more systematic examination, looking for evidence of disease or other injuries. There was an ancient scar on Vale’s knee, but nothing else was apparent.

Trying not to let his bafflement influence him, he moved to the next corpse, which was the older of the two London brothers. Again, there was no evidence of drowning. The younger sibling yielded an equally curious lack of symptoms, and so did Northwood.

When he had done all he could, Bartholomew replaced their clothes, then sat back on his heels and stared at the corpses in confusion. How had they died? Could they have swallowed poison? But then how had they all ended up in Newe Inn’s pond?

Absently, he took a knife from his bag, wondering whether anyone would notice if he made a small incision to inspect the inside of one of the victims’ stomachs. He had never done such a thing before, but he had witnessed a dissection in Salerno where a case of poisoning had been discovered by a mass of ulcers in the innards. There had been no external symptoms, and the killer might have escaped justice had it not been for the skill of the anatomist.

But defiling the dead was frowned upon in England, although Bartholomew considered it a foolish restriction, because much could be learned from cadavers. Without conscious thought, the knife in his hand descended towards Vale’s middle.

‘What are you doing?’ came an incredulous voice behind him.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet and spun around to find
himself facing Dunning and Julitta. Dunning’s aristocratic face was pale with horror, although Julitta seemed composed.

‘Examining these bodies,’ he replied, aware that his voice was far from steady. It was partly because Dunning’s loud question had made him jump, but mostly because he had been a hair’s breadth from doing something recklessly grisly. He was horrified with himself, not for almost giving in to the urge to delve into the forbidden art of anatomy, but for coming so close to doing it in St Mary the Great.

‘With a knife?’ demanded Dunning sceptically.

‘If he is to conduct a thorough examination, he must remove their clothes, Father,’ said Julitta reasonably. ‘Obviously, the blade is to deal with stubborn laces.’

‘What is wrong with untying them?’ asked Dunning, still unconvinced.

‘They have been immersed in water,’ explained Julitta patiently. ‘And water causes knots to tighten. You know this.’

Bartholomew stared at her, noting the way her fine kirtle hugged the slim lines of her body and her hair caught the sunlight from the windows. When she smiled at him, he found himself thinking that Surgeon Holm was a very lucky man.

‘Well, it looked to me as though he was going to take a lump out of Vale,’ Dunning was saying, disgust vying for precedence with horror in his voice. ‘There are tales that say he is in league with the Devil, and I know such men need bits of corpses for their diabolical spells.’

‘Doctor Bartholomew is not a sorcerer,’ said Julitta firmly, while Bartholomew continued to gaze gratefully at her. ‘That is a silly story put about by the likes of my brother-in-law. I am fond of Weasenham, but he really is the most dreadful gossip.’

‘He is,’ conceded Dunning. ‘But he was a good match for Ruth, so I am not complaining.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So have you learned anything from these hapless corpses yet? They died in the property I have donated to your University, so I have a right to ask.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Michael, who had heard voices and had come to investigate. ‘And you shall have a full account as soon as my Corpse Examiner has written his official report. Would you like me to bring it to your house later? Perhaps close to the time your dinner is served?’

Julitta’s eyes widened at the brazen hint, and she smothered a smile. ‘You are welcome to dine with us, Brother,’ she said graciously. ‘And Doctor Bartholomew must come, too, lest we have any technical questions.’

‘But I want to know what he has surmised now,’ objected her father.

‘Of course you do, but he has not finished yet,’ said Julitta. ‘And we must visit the Market Square, to ask the baker to increase the amount of bread we dispense to the poor. Summer might be here at last, but the crops are still far from ripe, and they need our charity more than ever now their winter supplies are exhausted.’

‘You are lucky Julitta has a quick brain and an eye for a pretty face,’ said Michael, once she and Dunning had gone. His green eyes were wide with shock. ‘I saw exactly what you were going to do with that knife. No, do not deny it, Matt! It was obvious. What in God’s name were you thinking?’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I was not thinking, Brother. I do not feel well, and my wits are like mud this morning.’