Murder by the Book (3 page)

‘Weasenham produces anthologies of set texts called
“exemplars”,’ elaborated Michael, when Tulyet’s puzzled expression showed that he did not understand why this should be important. ‘Which students then hire. They are in constant demand, so speedy scribes are essential.’

‘The Carmelite Priory has a scriptorium,’ said Tulyet. ‘Perhaps the friars there will help to produce these exemplars until Adam can be replaced.’

‘No – the Carmelites produce fine books and illustrated manuscripts,’ explained Michael with a tolerant smile at such ignorance. ‘They are wholly different undertakings. And if you want an analogy, compare that donkey over there with your best warhorse.’

‘Adam wanted to join the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew, sorry the youngster had not lived to realise his ambitions. ‘He told me that writing was his life.’

‘Then I had better set about finding out who killed him,’ said Tulyet quietly.

‘And I had better break the news to Weasenham,’ added Michael reluctantly. ‘I shall do it the moment the Convocation is over.’

Although it was not long past dawn, the sun had already burned away the early morning mist, and it promised to be a fine day. The sky was a clear, unbroken blue for the first time in weeks, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he and Michael left the riverbank. The ever-present stench of animal dung and human waste was dominant, but the sweeter scent of flowers and grass lay beneath them. Summer had arrived at last.

The previous winter had been long and hard, and although they had seen little snow, a series of fierce frosts had claimed a number of Bartholomew’s more vulnerable patients. There had been starvation, too, because the harvest had failed, and even the alms dispensed
by the convents had not been enough to save some folk from an early grave. The town had celebrated with foolish abandon when the first blossoms had appeared on the trees, relieved beyond measure at this sign that the weather was finally beginning to relinquish its icy hold.

The quickest way to St Mary the Great from the river was via Cholles Lane, a narrow alley bounded on one side by the high wall that surrounded the Carmelite Priory, and a row of houses on the other. There were only three buildings of note. First was the shabby hostel run by Principal Coslaye, which he called Batayl; next was Newe Inn, the former tavern that was being converted into the Common Library; and the last was a pretty cottage occupied by Will Holm the surgeon, who had arrived two months before – on Easter Day – to set up practice in the town.

‘I see work is proceeding apace on Newe Inn,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as they walked. The sawing, hammering and chiselling had started the day after the Convocation, and its sponsor, Sir Eustace Dunning, had promised the craftsmen a handsome bonus if they finished before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Needless to say, the artisans were eager to oblige.

Michael scowled. ‘I still cannot believe that ridiculous grace was passed. And by only three votes, too! It will mean nothing but trouble.’

‘No – it will mean that
all
our scholars will have access to texts they might otherwise never see,’ countered Bartholomew. He had voted for the proposal, much to Michael’s disgust, and while he knew he would never persuade the monk to his point of view – or vice versa – they still argued about it every time they passed Newe Inn in each other’s company.

‘But Newe Inn is wholly unsuitable for the purpose.’
Michael stopped to glare at it. ‘It is the wrong size, the wrong shape, and most of its windows face north. It will be too dark to read most of the time, and too cold in winter. Moreover, Batayl Hostel
and
the Carmelites think it should be theirs.’

‘It is Sir Eustace Dunning’s property. He can give it to whoever he likes.’

‘No good will come of it,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘And I still cannot believe that
you
supported its foundation. I thought I had made it clear that I was against it, and that I expected all the Regents from my own College to vote accordingly.’

‘A lot of good will come of it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who had resented being ordered to act against his beliefs. ‘I am tired of running all over the University every time I want to consult a text – and of hoping that its owner will deign to let me see it. A Common Library will mean they are all stored in one place, and will thus be available to everyone.’

‘That is idealistic claptrap! First, this collection will be open to every member of our
studium generale
, which means the demand on its resources will be enormous. You may never see the books you want because others will get to them first.’

‘But at least those in the poorer foundations will have a
chance
to—’

‘And second, there is the issue of benefactions. Our College rarely buys books, because they are too expensive – most have been
bequeathed
to us. But a central repository will be more attractive to donors, and they will favour it in their wills. What will become of Michaelhouse?’

‘We will use the Common Library.’

‘You are missing the point!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘I do not refer to the academic value of books, but to their
actual
value. We sold our spare copy of Holcot’s
Postillae
earlier this year, and it raised enough money to keep us in bread for a month.
Ergo
, they are a vital asset, and your Common Library will deprive us of it. And we are not rich as it is.’

‘Books are not a commodity, Brother, to be bought and sold like—’

‘Of course they are a commodity! Even Deynman our Librarian, who is as fanatical about his charges as a mother hen with chicks, agreed that it was right to let the Holcot go.’

Bartholomew had no desire to debate the matter further. He changed the subject, and began to talk about the experiments he was conducting with his medical colleagues instead. They were trying to develop fuel for a lamp that would burn at a constant and steady rate, which they hoped would let them see what they were doing when patients summoned them at night.

‘We added myrrh yesterday,’ he said, blithely unaware that Michael was not very interested. The monk might have been, had the
medici
made progress occasionally, but they were no further towards their goal than they had been when the project had started some months earlier.

‘Your colleagues are an unprepossessing crowd,’ Michael said, brusque because the previous discussion had reminded him that he was still sulking over the fact that his closest friend had defied him at the Convocation. ‘Gyseburne’s obsession with urine is sinister; Rougham is arrogant; Meryfeld is stupid; and Vale is sly.’

‘And our new surgeon – Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, rather taken aback by the monk’s vehemence. ‘Do you dislike him, too?’

‘Yes. Although, his arrival has meant that you no longer
perform those nasty techniques yourself, which is not a bad thing.’

Bartholomew said nothing. He had saved a number of patients with surgery, but it was the domain of barber-surgeons, and virtually everyone disapproved of his unconventional talent for it. He started to change the subject a second time, but they had arrived at St Mary the Great, where the Convocation was about to begin.

Bartholomew and Michael walked into the church to find it full. Chancellor Tynkell heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the monk. The election of a Junior Proctor was not a contentious piece of business, but most of those present were actually there to reiterate their opinions of the Common Library, and he knew he would be unable to keep the peace once the more rabid of the Regents began to hold forth.

‘I bid you all welcome,’ he said nervously to the assembly, after he had intoned a rambling and somewhat incoherent opening prayer that betrayed the depth of his unease. ‘We are here to see about the election of another Junior—’

‘
I
am here to express my displeasure about this wretched library,’ cut in Teversham hotly. His Bene’t colleagues were at his shoulder, nodding vehement agreement. ‘Work is proceeding far too fast, and it is unseemly.’

‘We are trying to finish by Corpus Christi,’ explained William Walkelate, the erudite, amiable architect from King’s Hall, who had been given the task of transforming Newe Inn from run-down tavern to functional library. The appointment had made him unpopular with his colleagues, however – King’s Hall was one of the project’s fiercest detractors. ‘Dunning has set his heart on—’

‘It is all wrong,’ snapped Teversham. ‘The wealthier
foundations, such as my own, already have repositories for books, and so do the convents. We do not need another.’

‘But what about those scholars who are not members of rich Colleges or religious houses?’ asked Walkelate with quiet reason. ‘It is all but impossible for them to gain access to books, and a Common Library will transform their lives.’

‘I do not care about them,’ spat Teversham. ‘I care about what will happen to my College now that this ridiculous grace has been passed – namely donors giving their collections to it, and Bene’t being overlooked. Then
we
shall be impoverished!’

There was a rumble of agreement from the Colleges and convents, which tended to be well endowed with reading matter, and cries of ‘shame!’ from the hostels, which were not.

‘If Bene’t finds itself short of books, it can use the Common Library like everyone else,’ said a philosopher named Sawtre, once the hubbub had died down. He was also from King’s Hall, and disbelieving glances were exchanged between his colleagues at this disloyal remark. ‘And quite rightly. As matters stand, the hostels are at a serious disadvantage, and it is hardly fair.’

‘What does fairness have to do with anything?’ asked Teversham, genuinely puzzled. ‘It is the natural order of things that some of us have access to books, and some do not. We have managed without a general library for hundreds of years, so why foist one on us now?’

There was another growl of approval from the Colleges and convents, while the Regents from the hostels clamoured their objections.

‘Has our University existed for hundreds of years?’ asked Chancellor Tynkell, more to himself than to the assembly.
‘I thought it was established during the tenth year of King John, which makes it roughly a hundred and fifty—’

‘Treachery!’ shrieked Teversham. ‘It was founded by King Arthur, and to say otherwise means that Oxford is older than us and therefore superior. And none of us believe
that
!’

There was a chorus of unanimous appreciation: on this point, everyone was agreed.

‘Quite so,’ said Michael. ‘Now let us return to the matter in hand. We must appoint a Junior Proctor as soon as possible, because I shall need help at Corpus Christi, and—’

‘You only need help because of this vile library,’ said Teversham bitterly. ‘Allowing a townsman to come along and tell us that we should have one is a dangerous precedent, and I advise you to bring an end to the scheme while you can.’

‘We voted, and the grace was passed,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I was not very pleased, either, but we are bound by the decision, and there is no more we can do.’

‘That ballot was tainted,’ stated Coslaye, his stentorian bellow cutting through the frenzy of objections and cheers. ‘I was nearly murdered after it was taken, so I demand another.’

Everyone had assumed that Coslaye would die when he had been injured during the last Convocation, but Bartholomew had relieved the pressure on his brain by drilling holes in his skull. Now, six weeks later, the only visible evidence of his brush with death was the fact that the hair on one side of his head was shorter than the other, on account of it being shaved off. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, his success with what had been widely viewed as a hopeless case still did not alter the fact that physicians were not supposed to demean themselves with
surgery, and his colleagues, medical and lay alike, roundly condemned him for what he had done.

‘Oh,’ said Tynkell, swallowing uncomfortably. ‘I see your point. Well … I suppose …’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly, before the Chancellor could agree to something untenable. ‘It is undemocratic to demand another poll because you do not like the result of the first. The losers must accept the will of the majority.’

‘Three votes is not a majority,’ argued Coslaye. ‘It means we are split down the middle.
Ergo
, we should give the matter further consideration.’

‘No,’ said Michael again, struggling to make himself heard over the rising clamour of voices. ‘The vote must stand. Our statutes are quite clear on this point.’

‘But this horrible library will be a cuckoo in our midst,’ wailed Teversham. ‘A cuckoo that will steal books from the Colleges, and that will reside in a house that Dunning had already pledged to two other foundations.’

‘It will not be a cuckoo,’ argued Walkelate, offended. ‘It will be a magnificent eagle, one that will allow our scholars –
all
our scholars – to soar into the lofty firmament of learning.’

‘Eagles are evil predators that prey on the helpless,’ flashed Teversham. ‘And so is anyone who supports this wicked notion.’

‘I agree,’ bawled Coslaye. ‘Dunning’s offer should have been rejected.’

‘But you run a hostel, Coslaye,’ Sawtre pointed out reproachfully. ‘You should support a scheme that will give your scholars the same access to books as College men.’

‘My lads would rather be bookless than spend another winter in cramped misery,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘We
need
that building.’

‘It was promised to us,’ said Prior Etone of the Carmelites
sharply. ‘No matter what Dunning claims now. And its loss is a bitter blow, because we had plans for it.’

‘This nasty library has caused all manner of strife among us,’ interjected Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall sadly. He was a physician, unattractive of countenance and character. ‘It is not just Colleges and hostels fighting each other – it is worse. There are divisions within foundations, too, and they are tearing us apart. I am ashamed to admit that even Gonville has a traitor.’

‘One who has dared not show his face here today,’ added another Gonville scholar sourly. ‘Namely Roger Vale, our second Master of Medicine.’