Murder by the Book (25 page)

Michael smiled suddenly. ‘She is an incredible woman, though, do you not think? I wish I had known her in her prime, when she won knife-throwing competitions against the King’s best warriors, and was the most feared spy the French had ever known.’

She was more than impressive enough for Bartholomew in her dotage, and the thought of her young, strong and
lithe was deeply unsettling. He changed the subject to the attack on the castle.

‘Mercenaries were hired, but the one who was captured refuses to talk. His son, John Ayce, was murdered, apparently, and he still grieves. He does not care what happens to him.’

‘I remember that case,’ mused Michael. ‘Young Ayce sold eggs to the castle, but he was a brute, and his father was the only one who mourned him. His killer – one William Hildersham – escaped while being transported to the Bishop’s prison in Ely. I recall being pleased when I heard.’

‘Why?’ It was unlike the monk to condone murderers evading justice.

‘Ayce was a bullying brawler who had terrorised and even injured other scholars. Hildersham claimed self-defence, and the University believed him. We all thought Ayce had been given his just deserts.’

‘Yet the secular jury found Hildersham guilty. There must have been some reason why—’

‘Secular juries always find against us, you know that. Their verdict meant nothing.’

‘Ayce’s father does not think so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is bitter and angry.’

‘No parent likes to see his offspring stabbed, no matter what the circumstances. But it happened years ago, and cannot matter now.’

‘On the contrary, Brother. It led Ayce to join the force that tackled the castle.’

Michael sighed. ‘Cambridge was like a town under siege last night, its streets thick with soldiers. I rousted out all my beadles, too. I do not want these villains attacking the University.’

‘You think they might?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

Michael shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but precautions never go amiss.’

It was peaceful in St Michael’s Church that morning. Sunlight filtered through the east window, and its thick walls muted the rattle of hoofs and iron-shod wheels on the cobbled streets outside. A dove cooed in the rafters, and the only other sound was Suttone chanting mass. Someone, probably William, had swept the church the previous day, and had put flowers on the windowsills, so their sweet scent mingled with the more pungent aroma of incense.

Afterwards, Michael requested that he and Bartholomew be excused from breakfast, slyly not mentioning that there might not be any if Agatha was still at the castle with her nephew.

‘Why?’ asked Langelee. ‘Have you learned who tried to dash out Coslaye’s brains at the Convocation at last?’

‘No,’ replied Michael with a grimace. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then I suppose it must be your investigation into the four dead scholars,’ surmised the Master. ‘The only one I knew was Northwood. He often stopped for a chat when our paths crossed, especially during the last two months or so. In fact, he was a bit of a nuisance, because I did not always have time for him.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael in surprise. Bartholomew agreed: Northwood’s intolerance of slow minds made Langelee an unlikely associate.

‘He was interested in my work for the Archbishop,’ elaborated Langelee. ‘I told him a good many tales that I have never dared share with anyone else here. In fact, I probably would not have shared them with him, either, had he not plied me with claret.’

‘What sort of tales?’ asked Michael in alarm. He did
not want his College’s reputation sullied by the Master’s drunken ramblings.

Langelee laughed, and waved a stubby finger. ‘Now Northwood is dead, my secrets are my own again, and I shall not make the mistake of another indiscretion. Suffice to say that they entailed my experiences in battle, my knowledge of poisons and my skills as a burglar.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, as Langelee went to lead his scholars back to Michaelhouse. ‘When he makes remarks like that, it makes me wonder whether he is the right man to be Head of House.’

‘He confessed a lot worse when we were in York a few weeks ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I am content with his rule. He is better at it than the rest of us would be.’

‘You only think so because he gives you licence to practise medicine however you see fit, and rarely condemns you for indulging in surgery. But it is too early to go to Batayl Hostel – they will still be at their devotions. We shall have breakfast in the Brazen George first.’

Although scholars were forbidden from frequenting taverns, which tended to be full of ale-swilling townsmen spoiling for a fight, Michael had always maintained that this particular stricture did not apply to the Senior Proctor, and he visited the Brazen George – a pleasant establishment on the High Street – so often that there was a chamber at the rear of the premises set aside for his exclusive use. It was a pretty room, overlooking a courtyard where the morning sunshine slanted across the herb beds, and where contented chickens scratched around a picturesque well. He ordered a substantial repast, which included cold meat, new bread and a dish of coddled eggs.

‘But no cabbage,’ he called after the departing taverner. ‘I cannot abide anything green. It upsets my stomach, and keeps me in the latrines.’

‘Only if you eat too much of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Every
medicus
who has ever written about food says that a balanced diet, with moderate amounts of meat, bread and vegetables is—’

‘They were writing for the benefit of the general populace,’ interrupted Michael haughtily. ‘They cannot know about
my
innards. And these so-called balanced diets are a nonsense, anyway. How can they be balanced, when they include vegetables? Greenery is for slugs and caterpillars, not men with healthy appetites.’

Bartholomew knew better than to argue, and his attention was soon distracted from the discussion anyway – by the number of dishes that Landlord Lister brought to the table.

‘God’s blood, Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and whose army will be eating this?’

‘It is only a mouthful,’ said Michael comfortably, tying a piece of linen around his neck to protect his habit from splattered grease. ‘Barely enough to keep a sparrow alive.’

‘It was a bad business at the castle yesterday,’ said Landlord Lister conversationally, as he brought a large platter of roasted beef. ‘I heard the raiders were after the taxes. Thank God they did not get them, or we would all have had to pay again.’

‘It was a close thing, though,’ said Michael. ‘The villains had reached the foot of the Great Tower before Dick Tulyet’s archers were able to drive them off.’

‘Do you really think they wanted the taxes?’ Bartholomew asked, when Lister had gone.

Michael stared at him. ‘Of course! Why else would they tackle a castle? It is not as if they were part of an invading army, and needed to secure a fortress in order to control a region.’

‘The place contains a lot more than money. There are
horses, weapons, all manner of documents and deeds. There are also prisoners in the gaol, and—’

‘Then I am glad the mystery is not mine to unravel. My hands are full enough already.’

After mopping up the last of the grease with a piece of bread, Michael led the way out of the Brazen George. Bartholomew looked around appreciatively as they walked, again admiring the work that had been done to make the town pretty for Corpus Christi. The High Street looked especially picturesque, with its brightly painted houses and neat shops. The churchyards had been tidied, too – brambles and nettles trimmed back, and grass scythed.

Michael insisted on stopping at St Mary the Great as they passed, to see whether Beadle Meadowman had left him a progress report about dredging Newe Inn’s pond. The Trinity Sunday service was still in progress, and Bartholomew smiled when he heard the sweet, pure notes of the choir. The church was full of fragrant white flowers, which would be kept until Wednesday evening, when a lot of red ones would be added for Corpus Christi.

They had not been in Michael’s expensively furnished office for long – Bartholomew admiring Walkelate’s sketches of the finished library, and the monk rummaging through mounds of documents in search of a message from his beadle – when there was a cough. It was the Chancellor.

‘Come in, Tynkell,’ said Michael, without looking up. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Have you solved the Newe Inn deaths yet?’ asked Tynkell. He seemed bolder than usual, and Bartholomew wondered whether it was because he was wearing his robes of office, which conferred on him a confidence he did not normally possess. ‘The Common Library will open its
doors to readers in four days, and I do not want unexplained demises hanging over the occasion.’

‘I am working as fast as I can,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘Unfortunately, I have been busy quelling spats among our scholars over your damned project – the most recent being last night, when Berwicke Hostel squabbled with King’s Hall. Moreover, there has not been much in the way of clues about what happened to those four men.’

‘Then you must find some, Brother.’ Tynkell seemed unsteady on his feet. ‘I want the opening ceremony to pass off without a hitch, and I shall hold you responsible if something spoils it.’

‘What?’ exploded Michael incredulously. ‘How dare you—’

‘You have a duty to prevent trouble,’ Tynkell went on, wagging his finger. ‘And there will be trouble, unless whoever killed those scholars is caught. So, who are your suspects?’

‘I shall tell you when I am good and ready,’ declared Michael angrily. ‘And I am doing my best, so do not order me to work harder. I told you a Common Library was a bad idea, and I was right. You did not listen, because you are desperate to be recorded as the Chancellor who gave Cambridge what Oxford has had for years. But the whole business is a terrible mistake.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Tynkell. ‘Besides, how else will I get to study Apollodorus’s
Poliorcetica
?’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘Why would you want to read that? It is about warfare.’

‘I happen to be very interested in siege engines and artillery,’ replied Tynkell, staggering when he tried to lean on the door frame and missed. ‘Even Northwood, Langelee and Riborowe were amazed at the depth of my knowledge, and none of them is easily impressed.’

‘Tulyet said you helped him to design a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Are you sure it is appropriate for scholars to meddle in such matters?’

‘Of course, it is. Who else is going to do it? We are the ones with the clever minds.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘I may have had a cup or two,’ replied Tynkell airily. ‘It is not a habit I usually indulge first thing in the morning, but today is Trinity Sunday, so I made an exception. Perhaps I should do it more often, because I feel like a new man. Indeed, I might even exercise my authority as Chancellor and make a decision about something.’

‘The last time you did that, we ended up having to call a Convocation of Regents,’ said Michael with considerable irritation. ‘And our
studium generale
has not rested easy since. There are even rumours that Northwood, the London brothers, Vale and even Sawtre may have been killed because of the way they voted. So leave the decisions to those of us who know what we are doing, if you would be so kind.’

‘Then you had better make an arrest fast,’ slurred Tynkell. ‘Because catching this villain may be the only way to prevent more trouble.’

‘I know it, believe me,’ said Michael tightly.

Tynkell grinned. ‘I must be drunk, because I do not usually order you about. However, it feels very satisfying. I shall almost certainly do it again.’

‘I would not recommend it,’ said Michael, rather dangerously. ‘So please ensure you are sober when we next meet.’

‘He is right, though,’ said Bartholomew, after Tynkell had lurched away. ‘Solving the Newe Inn deaths might well prevent trouble, and you should try to have a culprit before Corpus Christi. That gives you four days.’

‘Gives
us
four days,’ corrected Michael. He scowled.
‘Perhaps it is as well that Tynkell is retiring next year. He has no right to tell me what to do. Who does he think he is?’

‘The University’s Chancellor, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew mildly.

When Bartholomew and Michael arrived at Batayl Hostel, Coslaye was sitting by the hearth with a book open on his knees, Browne was leaning against the wall behind him, and the students were crowded on to benches. All seemed to have recovered from their bout of illness, although several remained pale.

‘We are reading Acton’s
Questio Disputata
,’ said Coslaye, lifting it so Bartholomew and Michael could see. ‘So far, it is a lot of twaddle.’

‘It is the book that almost deprived us of our Principal,’ elaborated Pepin in his perfect French.

‘I think we should have sold it, personally,’ said Browne. ‘Because times are hard, and—’

‘Never! This particular tome serves to remind everyone that God saw fit to spare me,’ interrupted Coslaye. He tossed it on to the table next to him, where it made a substantial thud. Its wooden covers rendered it weighty, and explained why it had done so much damage to his head. One corner had snapped off, indicating that it had also suffered from the encounter with bone. ‘No, do not lean against that wall, Brother! It may damage my mural. Come to the front.’

Conditions were very cramped for teaching, and Bartholomew was not surprised that the Batayl men had entertained high hopes of moving to Newe Inn – it was not easy to pick his way through the students without treading on any. Michael took no such care, though, and Pepin was one of several who staggered as the monk’s bulk travelled past them.

‘Have you come to tell us who tried to kill me?’ asked Coslaye. ‘I know you have been busy of late, but I should not like to think the attempt on my life has been forgotten.’

‘It has not,’ Michael assured him. ‘I promised you I would find the culprit, and I shall.’

‘Thank you.’ Coslaye turned to Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham tells me that when you fought at Poitiers, you killed fifty Frenchmen with a spell that blasted them clean out of their armour. What a fabulous achievement! Will you tell us more?’