Murder by the Book (2 page)

‘What?’ asked Rougé, uneasily. ‘How?’

‘Ransoms,’ explained the Archbishop. ‘We shall all be taken to England, and I have already been told that my freedom alone will cost eight thousand pounds. Eu’s will be six, and you will not fetch less than one and a half. God only knows what price will be put on King Jean.’

Rougé was silent. He knew about the practice of ransoming, of course, but he was suddenly stricken with the realisation that his desperate attempt to rescue his monarch would ruin his family – and ruin them it would, because years of war had taken their toll on his estates, and fifteen hundred pounds was an impossible sum. He closed his eyes in despair. The conflict had brought famine and poverty to France already, and the ransoms would exacerbate the problem beyond endurance. The common folk would refuse to buy their masters’ freedom, and there would be rebellion and anarchy.

It was then that he knew he hated England with every fibre of his being, and would do anything humanly possible to avenge himself on the nation that had wreaked such havoc on his own. In the fading light, he could see the carnage of the battlefield, the once-proud banners fluttering forlornly in the evening breeze, and the
undignified piles of corpses set ready for mass burial the following morning.

‘I shall avenge our dead,’ he vowed, his resolve strengthening by the moment. ‘I shall ensure that France never suffers a rout like this again. Not ever.’

His companions regarded him askance. ‘How?’ asked Sens. ‘You are a guest of the English now, and there is not much you can do from the Tower of London.’

‘I have a plan,’ replied Rougé. ‘It entails me learning a secret.’

A gleam of hope flared in the Archbishop’s eyes when he heard the conviction in the younger man’s voice. ‘What secret?’

Rougé’s face became cold and hard. ‘One that will change the world for ever.’

Cambridge, early May 1358

It was not often that the University at Cambridge called a Convocation of Regents – a gathering of all its masters – but one was certainly organised when Sir Eustace Dunning offered to finance a Common Library. It was a contentious matter, and while some scholars were delighted by the prospect of unlimited access to books, others thought the concept was fraught with dangerous precedents, and argued that the gift should be politely but firmly declined.

The Regents, who were the University’s governing body and so responsible for deciding what was best for it, began to arrive at the church of St Mary the Great long before noon, when the meeting was scheduled to begin. As it was a formal occasion, they wore their ceremonial robes: scarlet gowns and hats for the seculars, and best habits for the monks and friars. Tensions were high, and spats had broken out long before Chancellor Tynkell called for
silence, intoned some prayers, and declared the Convocation officially open.

There was an immediate clamour as virtually every man present strove to make his views known. Tynkell, a timid, ineffectual man wholly incapable of controlling hundreds of opinionated scholars, could only wave his hands in feeble entreaty, and it was left to his Senior Proctor, the plump, charismatic Brother Michael, to take charge. Once he had stilled the commotion, Michael indicated that Philip de London was to speak first.

‘Books are expensive,’ London began in a quiet, dignified voice. He and his brother were scribes, employed by the University’s stationer. ‘And only the wealthiest foundations can afford them. A Common Library will ensure that even our poorest scholars will see texts that—’

‘There are more important issues at stake here than the education of paupers,’ interrupted John Teversham, a Fellow of Bene’t College, whose exquisite robes suggested that money would never come between him and the tomes
he
wanted to study. ‘And I believe that such a foundation will endanger our University.’

‘How?’ asked London irritably. ‘Oxford has had one for the past thirty years, and no harm has befallen it. Indeed, its scholars say it is an excellent addition to—’

‘What that rabble does is not always sensible,’ interrupted Teversham. ‘Besides, where will this collection go? We do not have a suitable building for it.’

‘Actually, we do,’ interjected Tynkell. He smiled nervously, knowing that his news would receive a mixed reaction. ‘Sir Eustace Dunning has given us Newe Inn in Cholles Lane.’

Half the scholars cheered their delight, while the others booed and hissed, and it was some time before Michael was able to restore calm again. Once the church was quiet,
he let Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel speak first, because the man was scarlet with apoplectic rage, and Michael was afraid he might have a fatal seizure if he was not permitted to have his say soon.

‘The University cannot have Newe Inn,’ Coslaye bellowed furiously. ‘Dunning promised that building to
us
. To Batayl!’

‘I beg to differ,’ countered Prior Etone of the Carmelites, startled. He was a serious, unsmiling man said to be better at administration than scholarship or religion. ‘He promised it to
me
, and—’

‘Lies!’ screamed Coslaye. ‘Dunning would never break his word to us.’

‘Or to us,’ retorted Etone coolly.

‘Well, it seems he did both,’ said Tynkell, when Coslaye was too angry to form coherent words and could only splutter with rage, hopping from foot to foot as he did so. He held up a document. ‘Because I have the deed of ownership here. Dunning gave it to me this morning, and if the vote goes as he hopes, Newe Inn will become the Common Library with immediate effect. He would like an official opening at the Feast of Corpus Christi.’

‘Well, he will not have it,’ roared Teversham, beside himself with indignation. ‘Because only fools will favour such a scheme, and my fellow Regents will have more sense than to—’

The rest of his statement was lost amid cheers from those who opposed the ‘grace’ to found a Common Library, and catcalls from those who supported it.

‘I suggest we move directly to the vote,’ said Michael, once he had quelled the uproar a third time. ‘It is obvious that we have all made up our minds, so further discussion is pointless. All those who oppose the grace will move to the south aisle.’

There was an immediate stampede that included Teversham and Coslaye. They stood in a tight, belligerent huddle, hooting and jeering at those who remained, so that the ancient building rang with feisty voices.

‘Come over here,’ hollered Coslaye to the London brothers, his stentorian tones carrying through the din. ‘You are members of Batayl, so I order you to stand with us. It-—’

‘And those who support the grace will move to the north,’ boomed Michael.

The remaining Regents hurried to where he pointed, and when the shuffle was complete, it was clear that the result was going to be close. Tense and heated, they continued to harangue each other as Michael and Tynkell counted heads. And then counted them again.

‘The grace is carried by three votes,’ announced Tynkell at last.

There was a cheer from the north and a roar of disappointment from the south. The two sides converged in a fury of bawling voices and violently wagging fingers. And then something dark sailed through the air. It was a book with wooden covers, and its corner struck Coslaye hard on the side of his head. The Principal of Batayl Hostel dropped to the floor and lay still.

‘Who threw that?’ demanded Michael, in the shocked hush that followed.

There was silence. The University’s medical men – from both sides of the debate – hurried to the stricken man’s side, but their faces were grim as they inspected the wound.

‘He is bleeding inside his skull,’ said one. ‘I doubt he will survive. He has been murdered!’

Cambridge, June 1358

The corpse was on its back, eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above, arms flung out to the sides and legs dangling in the river. It was a youth with fair curls, a shabby tunic that had once been stylish, and ink on his fingers. It was a wicked shame, thought Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, that his life had been cut so brutally short.

‘You can see why I called you,’ said Richard Tulyet. He was Cambridge’s Sheriff, a slightly built man, whose wispy beard and boyish looks led criminals to underestimate him; they never made the same mistake twice. ‘His clothes and the stains on his hands …’

‘You think he is a scholar,’ surmised Brother Michael, leaning on Bartholomew’s shoulder to peer down at the body. As Senior Proctor, it was his duty to determine whether the dead boy was a member of the University, and if so, to investigate what had happened. ‘I do not recognise him.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His name is Adam, and he has just started to work for the University stationer. I treated him for a summer ague a few days ago.’

‘Did he mention any enemies?’ Michael shuddered. ‘His throat has been cut from ear to ear, so he clearly did something to annoy someone.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Tulyet’s expression was sober. ‘He is the third person to have been found with a slashed throat near the river over the last eight weeks or so.’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘There is a killer on the loose? Who are his other victims?’

‘A beggar whose name no one knows, and one of my night-watchmen,’ replied the Sheriff.

‘I hope there is no trouble brewing between your town and our University,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘We have been living in comparative harmony for months now, and it occurred to me only yesterday that we are overdue for a spat.’

‘Not on our part,’ averred Tulyet. ‘Now that summer is here at last, we are more interested in tending our crops than in quarrelling with you – none of us want another winter of crippling shortages, such as we had last year. However, your scholars have been rather warlike of late.’

‘Over the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew, nodding. ‘The grace to establish it passed by a very slim margin, and the losers are still resentful. It has caused a bitter rift.’

‘A rift that is likely to widen even further today,’ predicted Michael gloomily. ‘The Chancellor has called another Convocation of Regents because we need to elect a new Junior Proctor, but the occasion will be used to reignite the library trouble, I am sure.’

‘
Another
Junior Proctor?’ asked Tulyet. ‘But that makes three this year alone, Brother! What happened to your last deputy?’

‘He resigned,’ replied the monk shortly. ‘Just because I told him to put down a quarrel between Maud’s Hostel and Bene’t College. The spat was over that wretched library, of course.’

‘It was a pitched battle, not a spat,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it involved weapons.’

‘So what?’ shrugged Michael. ‘He had ten stalwart beadles at his back, and I fail to understand why he was
so reluctant to do his duty. I had the matter resolved in a few moments.’

During his years in office, the portly Benedictine theologian had amassed considerable power in the University, and it was common knowledge that he, not the Chancellor, made all the important decisions. He was thus a force to be reckoned with, and had restored the peace with no more than a few sharp words. No Junior Proctor could expect to do likewise, however, and the last incumbent had been so appalled by the expectation that he was to wade into such a vicious mêlée of waving knives and flailing fists that he had quit on the spot.

Unfortunately, it would not be easy to replace him. The work was poorly paid, often dangerous and had few perks. Moreover, Michael could be something of a tartar, impatient with those less intelligent than himself and intolerant of failure. No volunteers were likely to come forward at the Convocation, and the post would almost certainly remain vacant until some unsuspecting newcomer was persuaded to take it.

‘I heard about that fight,’ Tulyet was saying. ‘Several injuries and numerous arrests. However, Adam’s death will have nothing to do with those troubles. I believe he was killed because he, like the beggar and my guard, witnessed something he should not have done.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Smuggling – a perennial problem for any town near the Fens. Unfortunately, as soon as we catch one crew, another takes its place. There is a lot of money in the business, so the perpetrators tend to be protective of their interests, and will certainly kill to defend them.’

‘I hope Adam’s death will not prove to be too time-consuming,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘The new library is due to open a week tomorrow – on the Feast of Corpus
Christi – and I have my hands full trying to keep the peace. Not to mention Coslaye.’

‘Coslaye?’ queried Tulyet.

‘The Principal of Batayl Hostel, who was very nearly killed when someone lobbed a book during the last Convocation. Murder might not have been the culprit’s intention, but it was a wicked thing to do regardless, and he needs to be caught.’

‘I will find out what happened to Adam,’ offered Tulyet. ‘You have helped me often enough in the past, and I am already investigating two similar crimes.
I
shall bring his killer to justice.’

Michael smiled gratefully. He and the Sheriff had always enjoyed a good relationship, and there was rarely any squabbling over jurisdiction. ‘But you must be busy, too, Dick. The town celebrates this particular festival in style, so you will have pageants to organise, miracle plays to commission …’

‘The Guild of Corpus Christi is managing all that this year,’ replied the Sheriff. ‘The only pressing matter I have at the moment is the King’s taxes – mostly collected and counted, but still requiring a mound of documentation before they can be sent to London. It is tedious work, and at the risk of sounding callous, hunting killers is a welcome diversion.’

‘I hope you catch them,’ said Bartholomew, folding the corpse’s hands across its chest and closing its eyes. ‘Because Adam was little more than a child – too young to die.’

‘You say he was a scribe?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded, recalling what the lad had told him when they had met. ‘The University stationer, John Weasenham, hired him, because he can … he
could
write extremely fast.’