Murder by the Book (11 page)

‘I am sorry about the men who died yesterday,’ said Clippesby, the last of Michaelhouse’s seven Fellows currently in residence; the eighth was spending the summer at Waltham Abbey. Clippesby was a Dominican, whose penchant for talking to animals, and claiming they talked back, led most people to assume he was mad. That morning, he was cuddling what looked suspiciously like a rat. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers were kind and good.’

‘They were not,’ argued Thelnetham immediately. ‘They were scoundrels.’

‘You disliked Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘But he was a talented scholar.’

‘Being a talented scholar did not make him a decent person,’ retorted Thelnetham. ‘Moreover, I heard he was not always honest when dealing with tradesmen. And he was obliged to treat with lots, because his duties included buying supplies for the Carmelites’ scriptorium.’

‘Did you hear that from Weasenham?’ asked Bartholomew. His feelings towards Thelnetham were ambivalent: the mincing canon had a sharp tongue that he often used to wound, yet he was also intelligent and insightful.

‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham rather stiffly. ‘Not all his tales are fiction, and he furnishes me with some extremely interesting information. Such as that a certain Dominican spent hours last week conversing with bats, and a certain Franciscan was given a book for our College that has not yet been passed to Deynman.’

‘The bats have been very vocal of late,’ said Clippesby, smiling serenely. He rarely took umbrage at his colleagues’ gibes. ‘It must be the weather.’

‘What book?’ demanded William at the same time, although his furtive expression suggested he knew exactly what Thelnetham was talking about.

‘Did Weasenham regale you with any tales about Northwood, Vale and the London brothers?’ asked Michael, always interested in rumours about those whose deaths he was obliged to explore.

‘No,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘However, I am sure I do not need to remind you that all four voted for the Common Library. Damned villains! Of course, Vale only did it because Gonville does not have many medical books. Like
Bartholomew, he was motivated by selfishness, despite the fact that approving such a venture might damage Michaelhouse.’

‘Now wait a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘Matthew has already explained why he voted contrary to the rest of us: he followed his conscience.’

‘Then his conscience is wrong,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘But that is to be expected from a heretic.’

Bristling angrily, William began to defend Bartholomew, but was cut short by the arrival of Ralph de Langelee, the College’s Master. Langelee was a large, barrel-chested man, who did not look like a scholar, even in his academic robes, and whose previous career had involved acting as a henchman for the Archbishop of York. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, and Thelnetham was firmly of the opinion that he should return where he came from, although the other Fellows were satisfied with his careful, even-handed rule.

Langelee indicated that Cynric was to ring the bell again, then led his scholars up St Michael’s Lane towards the Collegiate church. Ayera hurried to walk next to him, muttering something that made him laugh, almost certainly an amusingly worded account of their colleagues’ latest squabble. Langelee and Ayera were friends, partly because – like Bartholomew – neither had taken major religious orders and both retained a healthy interest in women; and partly because they hailed from York and had known each other there.

‘I wish we had not elected Thelnetham as a Fellow,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear, as they took their place in the procession. Michaelhouse’s scholars were not supposed to talk as they went to church, but it was a rule the Fellows generally ignored.

‘Because he has an acid tongue?’ asked Bartholomew,
rather offended that the Gilbertine should think he had supported the Common Library for selfish reasons, when he had actually been motivated by altruistic sympathy with his poorer colleagues.

‘Yes. Our conclave used to be a pleasant place, with no bickering or nastiness. But he has taken against William – and against you when he forgets that you mix an excellent tonic for biliousness – and the rest of us are caught in the middle.’

‘Michaelhouse is not the haven of peace it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He jumped when a gate was slammed in nearby Ovyng Hostel, causing a crack like one of the Prince of Wales’s ribauldequins. Michael patted his shoulder sympathetically.

‘Do not worry, Matt. I will start looking for the three men who attacked you as soon as church is over. It will not be easy with no Junior Proctor, but I shall do my best.’

‘I doubt you will find them, not when I cannot furnish you with even the most basic of descriptions, and you have too much else to occupy your time. Forget them, Brother. I cannot see them trying again, not now they know I can– not give them what they want.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, unconvinced. He changed the subject. ‘I had a letter from my Bishop today, commenting on the ransoms that were demanded by our King for the French prisoners who were taken at Poitiers. Some have still not been paid.’

‘That is because they were so high,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘The one put on King Jean was at least twice France’s gross annual income. Moreover, the peasants resent being obliged to pay for the release of nobles who fail to protect them from English marauders, and the whole country is on the verge of a serious uprising.’

‘And all over a crown,’ sighed Michael. ‘I have no great
love for the French, but I would not have wished this on them.’

Attendance at meals in Michaelhouse was obligatory, so after the morning mass – over in record time because William was officiating and he took pride in the speed at which he could gabble the sacred words – Langelee led the procession home. The scholars milled around in the yard, enjoying the early morning sunshine, until the bell sounded to announce that breakfast was ready. Then there was a concerted dash for the door. Michael was one of the first to thunder up the staircase to where the victuals were waiting, with Suttone and William not far behind: all three had healthy appetites.

‘I do not know why they are always so keen to be first,’ remarked Bartholomew to Clippesby. His stomach was still unsettled, and the thought of food was unappealing. ‘No one can start before the Master has said grace, and he does not do that until we are all standing in our places.’

Clippesby smiled. ‘But there is nothing to stop them from grabbing bread from the baskets while the rest of us are still climbing the stairs. Have you never noticed the crumbs?’

It had been so long since Bartholomew had arrived at a meal before the others that he had forgotten his more voracious colleagues’ penchant for the common victuals.

‘I hope that is not a rat,’ he said, looking at the whiskery nose that poked from the Dominican’s habit. ‘I will overlook frogs, snakes, rabbits, birds, pigs and even slugs. But not rats.’

‘What is wrong with rats?’ asked Clippesby, offended. ‘They mean us no harm.’

‘On the contrary – they invade granaries and were
responsible for some of last winter’s starvation. Please do not bring it into the College again. It is hardly hygienic.’

‘But this one has something to report,’ objected Clippesby. ‘She knows a little about the four scholars who died in Newe Inn.’

The Dominican liked to roam the town after dark, communing with his furred and feathered friends. It meant he often witnessed dubious human behaviour, and had helped Michael’s enquiries several times in the past. Unfortunately, his unique way of reporting what he had learned made it difficult to separate fact from fiction.

‘She says they often met in Cholles Lane after dark,’ he went on. ‘Then they all slipped inside Newe Inn’s grounds together. But there were usually others with them.’

‘Who?’

‘She could not tell, because they were all cloaked and hooded. She cannot even say if they were men or women. She knows they took care to be quiet, though, and never let anyone see them.’

Cloaked and hooded, thought Bartholomew. Could they have included the three men who had attacked him the previous night? But virtually everyone in Cambridge possessed a cloak with a hood, and drawing conclusions from such attire was foolish and likely to be misleading.

‘I do not suppose she knows what these people did in Newe Inn, did she?’ he asked, although not with much hope. While Clippesby witnessed all manner of bizarre and inexplicable happenings, he was rarely moved to investigate them further. On the whole, Bartholomew was glad, because it might have been dangerous, and he was protective of the eccentric Dominican.

‘No. But it took them some time – they were gone for at least an hour. Sometimes longer.’

‘Were they in Newe Inn’s garden or in the house – the Common Library?’

Clippesby shrugged. ‘The rat cannot answer that, Matthew. All she saw was people entering the property via that little gate in the wall. She watched them gather on Tuesday night, in fact – Northwood, the Londons, Vale and one or two others. Incidentally, she has been watching Surgeon Holm, too. He has a lover, who visits him most evenings.’

‘Yes – Julitta Dunning. They are betrothed.’

‘They are betrothed,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But Julitta’s father would never allow his daughter to entertain him before they are married. Holm’s fancy is someone else.’

‘I do not want to know,’ said Bartholomew, holding up his hand. He had never liked gossip.

‘As you wish. But the rat will tell you, should you change your mind. She would like someone to warn Julitta, you see – to tell her that Holm will bring her pain if the marriage goes ahead. And I agree. As a priest, I could never sanction a union that will lead to such inevitable misery.’

As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew set his students an exercise to keep them busy while he went to St Mary the Great. He did not feel like examining bodies, and was developing a headache to go with his roiling stomach, so he only half listened to Michael talking about how he intended to solve the mystery surrounding the four deaths. However, he snapped into alertness when he became aware that the monk was making plans on his behalf.

‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ he objected. ‘My students are taking their final disputations soon, and they are not yet ready for—’

‘They are better prepared than any class in the
University,’ countered Michael. ‘And if they are lacking in some vital area, it is too late to correct it now. You are not needed as they re-read the texts they have already studied, and your presence will only make them nervous. It would be kinder if you let them be.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Bartholomew, a little indignantly.

‘I mean that you have unreasonably high expectations, and the pressure may have an adverse effect. Let them revise without interference, and help me instead. It will be better for everyone.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, Matt. You have become a tyrant in the lecture hall, and it is time to stop. You cannot push them as hard as you push yourself.’

Bartholomew was about to deny the charge when he recalled that his students
had
accused him of intimidating them on occasion. Moreover, Michael was right in that there was no point in trying to teach them anything new now, and his senior students were more than capable of reading exemplars to the others. He supposed, reluctantly, that he could afford to let them relax a little.

‘If there was foul play, then I would like to see the killer brought to justice,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘I liked Northwood, and Vale was a colleague.’

‘You did not like Vale, too?’ pounced Michael, too astute not to notice the careful wording of his friend’s capitulation.

Bartholomew hesitated, but supposed Michael had a right to know his opinion of the man whose death he was going to explore. ‘I thought him unsuited to our profession. He lacked tact, and he behaved inappropriately with female patients.’

‘Did he?’ Michael was intrigued. ‘I know Edith said he
made a nuisance of himself with her seamstresses, while Jorz claimed he laughed at an embarrassing ailment.’

‘He was more interested in devising a cure-all than in his patients,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It meant he did not take the time to listen to their symptoms before prescribing a solution, and he sometimes made mistakes. He was not a very good physician.’

‘Well, we shall bear his failings in mind as we investigate. Of course, I still have Coslaye to consider, too. I promised to catch the villain who nearly killed him.’

‘I imagine that was an accident – the tome was thrown more in frustration than a serious attempt to wound. Besides, it was weeks ago. Any trail will be cold by now.’

‘It was cold before I started, or the villain would have been arrested already. However, a crime is a crime, and I am unwilling to forget that one. I do not want scholars thinking that St Mary the Great is a good venue for lobbing missiles at colleagues who make contentious remarks.’

‘It is fortunate that Coslaye has an unusually thick skull, or the blow would have killed him outright. Even so, I was afraid that he would not survive the surgery. He was very lucky.’

‘The collision damaged the book, too,’ recalled Michael. ‘Acton’s
Questio Disputata.
Not a great treatise, but respectable enough. I gave it to him once he was up and walking again, as compensation for all his suffering.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking this a little insensitive.

‘I thought he could sell it for— Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and he wears the expression that tells me something terrible has happened. Again.’

‘You are both needed at King’s Hall,’ announced Cynric. ‘Master Sawtre has had an accident.’

‘What sort of accident?’ asked Michael warily.

‘Apparently,’ replied Cynric, ‘he has been crushed under a bookcase.’

It was not far along the High Street to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most prestigious College. It enjoyed the patronage of the King himself, and the sons of nobles were sent to it for their education. It was an impressive foundation, with a great gatehouse and powerful walls that would protect it from all but the most determined attacks – and as its ostentatious affluence was infuriating to many townsfolk, defence was a necessity. Behind the gate were several handsome accommodation blocks, an assortment of houses and a large hall for teaching.