Murder by the Book (8 page)

Riborowe sneered at him. ‘If you took Tynkell’s word for anything, you are a fool. He will say anything for a quiet life, and is always reneging on agreements.’

‘Tynkell would have pledged no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He knows better than to annoy me further with anything concerning the Common Library.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew: Tynkell
had been wholly unprepared for the extent of Michael’s wrath when the monk had learned that the Chancellor had been negotiating with wealthy benefactors behind his back. Some very harsh words had been aimed in his direction, and Tynkell had been desperate to make amends ever since.

‘You do not need more land,’ snarled Coslaye, ignoring him and addressing the Carmelites. ‘You have lots already. But we do not, and if you were good Christians, you would let us have it.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ began Michael. ‘This is hardly the—’

‘How will you pay for it?’ sneered Jorz. ‘You are paupers. However, we White Friars have the money to buy any land we choose.’

‘We can find funds,’ shouted Coslaye, incensed. ‘We have generous friends who will—’

‘Enough!’ roared Michael. He lowered his voice when both the Carmelites and the Batayl men regarded him in astonishment. ‘People are staring at you, laughing at your unedifying behaviour.’

‘I do not care.’ Coslaye’s face was mottled, and Bartholomew hoped rage would not induce a seizure. ‘Besides, the White Friars started it.’

Michael scowled at each of the four in turn. ‘Bring your grievances to me at St Mary the Great tomorrow, and we shall attempt to resolve the matter amicably.’ He raised a plump hand when all four began to object. ‘Not another word, or I shall fine all for breaching the peace.’

‘Who told you that the University was going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew of the Batayl men in the resentful silence that followed. ‘Because Michael is right: Tynkell would never have made such an offer.’

‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Browne, regarding him with dislike. ‘No one invited you to join this discussion.’

‘There is no need to be rude,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘I owe Bartholomew my life, in case you do not recall. He even waived his fee for the help he gave me, on account of our poverty.’

‘Yes, but the Devil probably paid him in kind,’ said Riborowe slyly. ‘I have heard that Satan is partial to poring over exposed brains. It amuses him.’

‘And how do
you
come to be party to Satan’s preferences, pray?’ asked Michael archly. He turned to Browne while the Carmelite was still floundering about for a suitable reply. ‘Matt posed a good question. Who told you this tale?’

‘The stationer,’ replied Browne. ‘Not that it is—’

‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘His lying tongue will see our town in flames yet. But we shall discuss this tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.’

Riborowe opened his mouth to object to the curt dismissal, but Jorz grabbed his arm and pulled him away, sensing it was unwise to irritate the Senior Proctor further.

‘The experiment we are running with the ink should be finished by now, Riborowe,’ he muttered. ‘Let us return to the scriptorium and see the results.’

‘I am complaining to the Bishop about you, Brother,’ called Riborowe threateningly over his shoulder, struggling to free himself from Jorz’s grip. ‘You run the University like a tyrant.’

‘Try it,’ shouted Coslaye challengingly. ‘It will do you no good. He is the Bishop’s spy, and he has accrued his power with de Lisle’s approval and connivance.’

Bartholomew suspected that was true: Michael could not have reached such dizzying heights without the
backing of some extremely influential supporters. ‘How are you feeling, Coslaye?’ he asked, eager to change the subject to one that was less contentious; Michael was looking angry. ‘Any headaches?’

Coslaye sniffed. ‘Yes, a great big one. It is called the Carmelites!’

‘We should have asked whether they have noticed any suspicious behaviour around Newe Inn’s pond recently,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone again. ‘The Carmelites and Batayl Hostel are among its nearest neighbours, after all.’

‘I considered it, but tempers were running too high – both sides might have invented stories just to see the other discredited. I shall quiz them tomorrow, when they are calmer. But we had better speak to Weasenham about gossip that disturbs the peace. Will you come with me?’

‘What, now?’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It is getting late and I am tired.’

‘Yes, now,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Who knows what damage the man might do if we delay?’

On warm summer evenings, the University stationer could usually be found sitting on the bench outside his shop, enjoying the fading daylight and devising salacious and invariably fictitious tales about passers-by. He was there that night, Ruth on one side, and Bonabes on the other. He was uncharacteristically subdued, though, while Bonabes was pale and Ruth had been crying.

‘Is it true?’ asked the Exemplarius, coming quickly to his feet as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘You found Philip and John London in Newe Inn’s pond?’

Michael nodded. ‘News travels fast, it seems.’

‘We heard it from one of your beadles,’ explained Weasenham. ‘It is a wretched shame, especially after poor
Adam. I know scribes are ten a penny in Cambridge, where every other man you meet can write, and I shall have no trouble finding replacements. But I liked Adam and the London brothers.’

‘We shall all miss them,’ added Ruth in a small voice. ‘Philip and John were so …’ She trailed off, unable to speak.

‘Calm,’ supplied Bonabes. ‘When business was frantic, with everyone screaming at us for completed exemplars, they soothed hot tempers with quiet words.’ He shot Weasenham a pointed glance. ‘And they were always quick to point out the undesirability of gossip.’

‘They were sanctimonious in that respect,’ nodded Weasenham. ‘And I am not a gossip. I just like to share what I know with other people.’

‘You gossiped to Browne about the Carmelites buying land from the University,’ said Michael.

‘I never did,’ declared Weasenham, although his eyes were furtive, while Ruth and Bonabes exchanged a pained glance that made it clear the stationer was lying.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Michael was exasperated and angry. ‘You know how irate our scholars get over anything to do with the Common Library.’

‘That is hardly my fault,’ said Weasenham defensively. ‘And I had the tale on good authority, anyway – Tynkell came to my shop this morning, and I heard him tell Sawtre that Newe Inn’s garden will be worth a lot of money one day, because it is strategically sited near the town centre.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘That is hardly the same as Tynkell saying he will sell it to the Carmelites.’

‘Of course he will sell it to the Carmelites,’ said Weasenham irritably. ‘They want it, and will pay above the odds to get it. Of course the University will trade with them. It is a matter of logic.’

‘It is an erroneous assumption that caused a quarrel,’ said Michael sternly.

Weasenham’s eyes brightened. ‘Really? Was there any violence? But of course there was, and I am not surprised. The Batayl men are fierce and aggressive, while that Browne is a nasty—’

‘There was no violence,’ interrupted Bartholomew hastily, appalled by the way Michael’s words were being twisted.

Ruth took Weasenham’s hand. ‘Please, husband. The Carmelites are good men. They do not deserve to be set at odds with Batayl.’

‘They are good men,’ admitted Weasenham. ‘Although I cannot say I like Riborowe and Jorz. Whenever they come to my shop, I am always under the impression that they are spying.’

‘Spying?’ asked Michael warily. ‘On what?’

‘On our paper-making experiments,’ explained Bonabes. ‘They run a scriptorium, so any advances in the manufacture of writing materials is of interest to them.’

‘Of course, spying will do them no good now the London brothers have gone,’ said Weasenham gloomily. ‘They were the ones who enjoyed meddling with dangerous substances, and the rest of us do not really know what we are doing. Perhaps we had better give up now that they are no longer here to guide us.’

‘No,’ said Bonabes. There was a catch in his voice. ‘They worked hard on this, and succeeding meant a lot to them. So I shall continue their endeavours, in my own time, if necessary. And when I learn how to do it, I shall name the paper-making process after them.’

Weasenham’s sly features softened. ‘There is no need to use your own time,’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. ‘You are right: they did work hard to succeed,
and it would be a pity to let their labours go to waste. We shall all help you finish what they started.’

Bonabes turned away at his master’s unexpected and uncharacteristic kindness, and Ruth began to cry again. Bartholomew and Michael left Weasenham trying ineptly to comfort them.

They had not taken many steps towards Michaelhouse when they were intercepted by Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, who had come to say that a quarrel had broken out between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel, and the Senior Proctor’s presence was needed to soothe the situation.

‘They are arguing over the library,’ Meadowman explained, rolling his eyes. ‘Again. Apparently, Master Heltisle made some remark about the grace being passed by ignorant ruffians, and Essex took exception. I wish the Chancellor had never had the stupid idea in the first place.’

‘You are not alone,’ muttered Michael, as they hurried away together.

When they had gone, Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go home, despite his weariness. He was unsettled by the events of the day, and suspected he would not sleep if he went to bed anyway. Besides, he felt a certain obligation to tell his medical colleagues in person that Vale was dead, so he began to walk towards Bridge Street, to the home of John Meryfeld, which had become the meeting place of the Cambridge
medici
in their quest for steady-burning lamp fuel. They had planned to resume their experiments that evening, and Bartholomew had been sorry that his duties as Corpse Examiner had prevented him from joining them.

He made his way past the jumble of alleys known as
the Old Jewry, where Matilde had lived, and entered Bridge Street. A breeze was blowing from the east, carrying with it the scent of the Fens – stagnant water, rotting vegetation and wet earth. It was a smell he had known since childhood, and one he found curiously comforting and familiar. Then there was a breath of sweetness from some honeysuckle, followed by a rather unpleasant waft from a latrine that needed emptying.

He arrived at Meryfeld’s house and knocked on the door, hoping it was not too late and his colleagues would still be there. Since beginning their quest the previous winter, the physicians had met at least once a week, and he had come to enjoy the sessions, despite their lack of progress. They were opinionated and dogmatic, and Bartholomew would never share his more novel theories with them, but he had come to accept their idiosyncrasies – and they his – and they had all gradually adopted attitudes of comradely tolerance.

Meryfeld’s plump face broke into a happy grin of welcome when he opened his door. He was always smiling, and had a habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke. He was not the cleanest of men, and his affable, pleasant manner concealed an intensely acquisitive core, but Bartholomew liked him anyway.

‘Hah!’ Meryfeld exclaimed. ‘We thought you were not coming. Vale did not arrive, either, so we assumed that you must have received summonses from patients. Come in, come in.’

His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’s
faith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.

William Rougham, portly, smug and arrogant, was reclining in Meryfeld’s best chair. He deplored the fact that Bartholomew had trained with an Arab physician, and regarded his methods as controversial and dangerous. In turn, Bartholomew despised Rougham’s traditionalism and resistance to change. But they had reached a truce over the years, and although they would never be friends, there was no longer open hostility in their relationship.

John Gyseburne was by the hearth. He was an austere, long-haired, unsmiling man in his fifties, who was of the firm belief that the only reliable diagnostic weapon was the inspection of urine. He always had a flask to hand, and rarely conducted consultations without requesting a sample; Bartholomew had even heard him demand one from a patient with a grazed knee. Despite this, Bartholomew had come to respect his opinions, and felt there was much to be learned from him.

The last of the gathering was Will Holm. Bartholomew had been delighted when the surgeon had first arrived, because Cambridge’s last sawbones had retired, and there had been no one, other than Bartholomew himself, to suture wounds, draw teeth or amputate damaged limbs. Unfortunately, it had not taken him long to learn that Holm was alarmingly hesitant, and while caution was admirable in one sense – his predecessor had forged ahead when it would have been kinder to let well alone – it was frustrating in another. Patients had died whom Bartholomew felt could have been saved. It was unusual for a mere surgeon to be included in a gathering of physicians, but Holm was a lofty sort of man who had taken his acceptance
as an equal for granted. He was cleaner, better dressed and infintely more refined than most of his fellows, and Bartholomew was always under the impression that he considered himself a cut above not just other barber-surgeons but above physicians, too.

‘You are late,’ Holm said brusquely, draining the contents of his goblet and setting it on a table. He was a tall, astonishingly handsome man with a luxurious mane of bright gold hair. ‘We were just about to leave.’

‘We were discussing Coslaye again,’ said Gyseburne, his tone rather more friendly than Holm’s. ‘We are still stunned by his recovery.’