Murder by the Book (7 page)

‘Vale?’ echoed Michael. ‘But this makes no sense! What do a friar, two scriveners and a
medicus
have in common?’

Bartholomew did not know, but the day seemed suddenly colder and darker.

Dismayed and saddened by what he had seen, Bartholomew was tempted to ignore Michael’s recommendation to leave the examinations until the following morning, and do it straight away. But he had been up most of the previous night with a patient and knew better than to undertake such an important task when his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep. He followed Michael and Cynric through the garden to the small gate that led into Cholles Lane.

‘Walkelate and his craftsmen were no help,’ said Michael, once he had reported what little he knew about the victims to the anxious crowd outside, and was walking away. ‘The pond cannot be seen from the house, and neither can the gate. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, despite the fact that they work on that accursed building all the hours God gives.’

‘I will ask around,’ offered Cynric. ‘Someone will have noticed something peculiar, because four men do not die with no witnesses.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said the monk fervently. ‘Do you mind starting now?’

Because it was a pretty evening, the streets were busy, and Michael and Bartholomew met a number of people they knew as they walked to Michaelhouse, some enjoying a relaxing stroll and others going home after work. The physician’s sister and her husband were among the former. They were deep in conversation, and Edith’s worried frown deepened when she saw her brother.

‘We were just talking about your grisly discovery at Newe Inn, Matt,’ she said sympathetically. ‘The tale is already all over the town. It must have been horrible for you.’

‘Do you know the names of the victims yet?’ Oswald Stanmore was a wealthy cloth merchant, a handsome, grey-haired man with a neat beard and fine clothes.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers.’

Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Not Northwood! He was a lovely man, and often came to our house to talk about cloth-dyeing. He was interested in such things.’

‘He was,’ agreed Stanmore, shaken. ‘He liked anything to do with mixing different ingredients together, and recommended several improvements that saved me a lot of money. He was interested in your efforts to create a clean-burning lamp, Matt, and wanted to be part of it.’

Bartholomew nodded again. ‘Unfortunately, Rougham and Holm will only experiment with other
medici
, and refused his offer. It was a pity, because I think he would have been useful.’

‘He would,’ whispered Cynric to Michael. ‘And they should have accepted his help, because they are making scant progress on their own. Personally, I suspect they will never succeed.’

‘I wish you would hurry up with it, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘I should like to be able to work winter nights without straining my eyes. So would many other folk, and I predict your non-flickering lamp will make you very rich, although I know money is not what drives you.’

Bartholomew did not reply. He was feeling despondent, partly because he hated to admit that several months of experiments had produced nothing worthwhile, but mostly because of what had happened to Vale and Northwood.

‘It seems to me that half of Cambridge is busy trying to invent something at the moment,’ said Edith. ‘The
medici
with clean-burning fuel, Northwood with dyes, the Carmelites with ink, Weasenham with paper-making, to name but a few.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It all began in January, when a deputation of scholars from Oxford came and bragged about some experiments they were conducting. As you can imagine, our Regents hated the prospect of being outshone by the Other Place, so quite a number of them turned inventor.’

‘Is that what has prompted this recent spirit of enquiry?’ asked Edith, amused. ‘A desire not to be bested by academic rivals?’

‘Partly,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is also about being more attractive to benefactors and patrons. And about drawing the best students. Applications to study here have increased tenfold since some of our Regents have become alchemists.’

‘I imagine they have,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘These pupils all hope to be part of these discoveries, so they can claim a slice of the profits when they are sold. But to return to the bodies at Newe Inn, Weasenham told us that one had an arrow in its back, and—’

‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Must he gossip
about
everything
? Of course, he probably did not know then that two of his scribes are among the victims.’

‘That will make three of his scriveners dead in a single day,’ said Edith. ‘Poor Ruth! She was distressed about Adam, but she will be heartbroken over the London brothers. She was fond of them, because her husband tended to curtail his rumour-mongering when they were to hand.’

‘So once again our town is plagued by killers,’ said Stanmore bleakly, placing a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘I cannot imagine what it is about Cambridge that attracts them.’

‘Matt has not inspected the bodies yet,’ warned Michael. ‘And until he does, we cannot say that murder—’

‘Of course they were murdered,’ interrupted Stanmore scornfully. ‘A man cannot shoot himself in the back with an arrow. Nor do four men choose the same spot in which to dispatch themselves, while if it was an accident, you would have seen it straight away. They were unlawfully slain all right. Poor Northwood! And poor John and Philip London, too!’

‘What about poor Vale?’ asked Michael.

It was Edith who answered. ‘I shall pray for his soul, but I disliked him. He pestered my seamstresses relentlessly, and I had to order him to stay away from them in the end.’

‘He was sly, as well as a lecher,’ added Stanmore. ‘He tried to cheat me when I sold him some cloth, and I was incensed that he should consider me a fool.’

‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding,’ said Bartholomew, troubled by the remarks. ‘I am sure he would not have—’

‘Dear Matt,’ said Edith fondly, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘Always thinking well of even the most brazen of villains.’

‘Incidentally, I am pleased to hear that the Common Library is almost ready,’ said Stanmore. ‘I have it in mind to donate my collection of breviaries to the venture.’

‘But you have always said those would come to Michaelhouse,’ cried Michael in dismay.

‘I have changed my mind. Chancellor Tynkell has promised twice as many masses for my soul if I give them to him instead. It—’

‘Who is that?’ asked Bartholomew suddenly, pointing to where a man and a woman were walking together. He had seen them before, and there was something about the lady that reminded him of Matilde, the love of his life who had disappeared from Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. That had been three years ago, almost to the day, and he had spent many months searching for her, but had finally resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. That did not mean he never thought about her, though, and the woman who walked along Milne Street bore an uncanny resemblance.

‘Sir Eustace Dunning and his younger daughter Julitta,’ replied Stanmore. ‘He is an influential member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and thus a powerful voice in town affairs. You should know him, Matt – he was the one who gave Newe Inn to your University.’

‘Julitta,’ repeated Bartholomew, a little dreamily.

‘Sister to Weasenham’s wife Ruth,’ Stanmore went on. ‘You can see the likeness, with their fair skin and pretty eyes. And in their intelligence, too.’

‘Julitta is betrothed to Surgeon Holm,’ added Edith. ‘Although I cannot say
I
would like to marry a surgeon. They probably bring home some shocking stains.’

Dunning was a handsome man in his fifties, whose thick grey hair and matching beard made him appear venerable,
like a modern-day Plato. He had fought in the Scottish wars, where his courage had earned him his spurs, and he had inherited a sizeable fortune from his father.

‘I am sorry my benefaction continues to cause strife, Brother,’ he said, as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘It was intended to please the University, not be a source of discord.’

Julitta laughed, a pleasant sound that reminded Bartholomew even more acutely of Matilde. His stomach lurched, and he could not stop staring at her. She had long, silky brown hair that she wore in a plait, and her slender figure was accentuated by the elegant cut of her kirtle. But it was her face that was her most striking feature. It was clear and sweet, and with the exception of Matilde, he could not ever recall seeing anyone so lovely.

‘What did you expect?’ she asked, eyes dancing. ‘Cambridge’s academics are clever men with strong opinions. I imagine any proposal will meet with opposition, no matter how kindly meant.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘Of course, it is a pity the Carmelites
and
Batayl feel they have a right to Newe Inn. It would have been better had you donated a different building to the venture, and I understand you have plenty. Perhaps you will give us another.’

It was Dunning’s turn to laugh. ‘You scholars are never satisfied!’

‘On the contrary, we are very grateful,’ said Michael, although he failed to sound sincere. ‘But my point was that you had already promised—’

‘I promised nothing,’ interrupted Dunning wearily. ‘The White Friars and Batayl have been clamouring at me for months to give them Newe Inn, and in an effort to shut them up, I said I would consider their applications.
Consider
, not agree to them. And that is all.’

‘I suspect Principal Coslaye and Prior Etone embellished the tale because they want my father to withdraw his offer to establish a library,’ explained Julitta. ‘They are not naturally sly, but the issue seems to have made them extraordinarily excitable.’

‘We have just visited it,’ said Dunning with a sudden smile. ‘I go there as often as possible, to monitor progress. Walkelate is an impressive fellow; he vowed it would be ready by Corpus Christi, and I am beginning to think he will succeed.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. He did not add ‘more is the pity’, but it was evident in his tone.

‘Our scheme is a good one, Brother,’ insisted Dunning, hearing the censure. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell assures me that it will benefit all concerned, even those who object now. A lack of books prevents many scholars from achieving all they might. A library will help them, and earn your
studium generale
the respect and fame it deserves.’

‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘But Tynkell’s motives for encouraging this scheme are not altruistic. He wants to be remembered after he retires next year.’

‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Julitta. ‘I understand he has done very little else during his tenure.’

‘The library will be a credit to you, Sir Eustace,’ said Bartholomew, finding his voice at last. ‘In fact, Kente has already made you immortal by carving your face on one of the lecterns.’

‘You noticed, did you?’ Dunning was pleased. ‘There is one of Julitta, too, and of Ruth, my other daughter.’

‘Kente has immortalised Tynkell, too,’ said Michael sullenly. ‘As Eden’s serpent.’

‘Nonsense, Brother!’ exclaimed Julitta, laughing again. ‘What an imagination you have!’

Dunning changed the subject by turning to Bartholomew and asking conversationally, ‘Surgeon Holm, who is soon to be my son-in-law, told me last night that you drilled a large hole in Coslaye’s skull after it was crushed by a flying book at the Convocation. Is it true?’

Bartholomew found himself strangely reluctant to have Julitta think badly of him by admitting that he regularly trespassed on barber-surgeon territory, especially as she was betrothed to one of them. ‘Well,’ he hedged awkwardly. ‘It was …’

‘He also said that Coslaye would have died had you not done so,’ added Julitta. ‘I think you were extremely brave to have undertaken such a difficult procedure. Brave and noble.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, taken off guard. He was unused to praise for his surgical skills.

Julitta nodded. ‘He said that he would not have dared do it, and was astonished that you did.’

Bartholomew made no reply, but was dismayed to hear that a tried and tested technique like trephining was beyond the talents of the town’s new surgeon. In fact, he recalled being unimpressed with Holm’s ‘help’ during the entire procedure, and it added to his growing suspicion that the man was not as proficient as he would have everyone believe.

‘Perhaps you should not have bothered,’ said Dunning tartly, ‘given that Coslaye recovered to spread lies about the promises I am alleged to have made.’

‘Really, Father!’ admonished Julitta. ‘That is not a nice thing to say, and Coslaye has his virtues. He is said to be an excellent teacher.’

‘You are quite right, my dear,’ said Dunning with a sigh. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. We had better go home before weariness leads me to say something else I do not mean.’

They moved away. Bartholomew watched them go, and might have stared at Julitta until she was out of sight, had Michael not prodded him, bringing him to his senses.

The two scholars resumed their journey, but had not gone far before their attention was caught by an altercation between four men. Browne was one of them, and Principal Coslaye another. Coslaye was a large man with rough, soldierly features and a notoriously hot temper, and he was shouting at the top of his voice. The objects of his ire were Riborowe and Jorz from the Carmelite Priory, and there was a lot of finger-wagging involved.

Bartholomew skirted to one side, loath to become involved in any debate that involved the waving of digits; in his experience men who employed such gestures were invariably bigots and closed to reason. However, the Senior Proctor could not walk past a quarrel that looked set to become violent, and when Coslaye jabbed Riborowe hard enough to make the skinny friar stagger, Michael stepped forward to intervene.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, interposing his considerable bulk between them.

‘There is a rumour that the University is going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites,’ explained Browne when his Principal was too enraged to speak. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell said
we
could have first refusal on any sale of land.’