Murder by the Book (16 page)

‘It is a pleasant time for a stroll,’ he said, all false bonhomie. ‘Neither too hot nor too cold.’

Bartholomew’s disquiet intensified; the bluff, soldierly Langelee was not a man to chat about the weather, either. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked in alarm.

‘Just the usual,’ replied Ayera, when Langelee hesitated. ‘College finances. As you know, my uncle died recently, after promising a substantial benefaction to Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, I have just learned that he had nothing to leave. Once his debts were paid, he was penniless.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You planned to spend your share on a horse …’

Ayera shrugged. ‘I shall manage without it. I am just sorry to disappoint my College.’

He gave a small, courtly bow and went on his way, his abrupt departure leaving Bartholomew with the impression that he was more disturbed by the news than he wanted them to know.

‘It is a damned shame,’ said Langelee, watching him go. ‘That money would have kept us afloat for more than a year, and the horse would have been a welcome addition to our stables. We could have made a tidy profit from putting him to stud, too.’

‘Ayera worked on his uncle for weeks to include us in his will,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleague’s jubilation when the old man had capitulated. He glanced at Langelee. ‘And you travelled to Huntingdon with him last month, to witness the new document.’

‘And to see my youngest daughter,’ said Langelee, fondness suffusing his blunt features.

It was not the first time the Master had mentioned offspring, and Bartholomew was keen to learn more about them, but Michael overrode the question he started to ask.

‘A wasted journey,’ the monk said in disgust. ‘One that cost us money, too.’

Langelee sighed ruefully. ‘Well, at least I enjoyed myself. Ayera is excellent company, and he impressed me with his martial skills. He was a soldier once, you know.’

‘We had gathered that from the tales you and he exchange of an evening,’ said Michael dryly. He regarded the Master pointedly. ‘Although
he
at least has the decency to regret the violence he has inflicted on others.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee with a rueful sigh. ‘It is a pity, because he is otherwise a fine man. And he is a considerable improvement on Bartholomew, who manages to make the great victory at Poitiers sound dull.’

Bartholomew rarely discussed the battle, and wondered what he could have said to give the Master that impression. There were many words he might have used to describe it, but ‘dull’ certainly would not have been one of them. ‘Do I?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Langelee folded his hands and gave a disconcertingly accurate impression of the physician’s voice. ‘“The Prince of Wales sounded the charge, we ran forward and the French surrendered.” An extremely vibrant account, to be sure.’

Bartholomew shrugged, suspecting Langelee would not understand if he confided that the battle was a blur in his mind – of wildly flailing weapons, screams and blood. He vividly recalled the injuries he had tended afterwards, but no one was very interested in those.

‘Have you discovered what happened to those four scholars in Newe Inn yet?’ the Master asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘The whole town is abuzz with rumours.’

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But my beadles have been busy with questions today.’

‘Good,’ said Langelee. ‘However, I strongly advise you to hurry, because our University seethes with bile and bitterness at the moment, and the sooner you can present us with a culprit, the sooner wounds and rifts will begin to heal.’

Michael did not need to be told.

At the Carmelite Friary, a lay-brother conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the pleasant cottage that served as the Prior’s House, where Etone sat at a large table surrounded by documents and a sizeable ledger.

‘We are here to ask about Northwood,’ explained the monk. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

‘Of course,’ replied Etone. ‘But this interview should take place in the scriptorium, where he worked. His colleagues knew him better than I did.’

The scriptorium was a grand name for the room above the refectory, which boasted large windows to admit the light. There were about a dozen desks, and a scribe stood
at each; among them were Riborowe and Jorz. Another four were novices, labouring over some basic writing exercises.

‘Riborowe has set them a series of theological tracts to copy,’ explained Etone, when Michael paused to look. ‘They will eventually be sold to Weasenham as exemplars. It is a good idea – it allows them to practise before we set them loose on vellum and expensive coloured inks.’

‘How many did Northwood sell last week?’ asked Michael innocently.

‘One,’ replied Etone. ‘There were two, but he said the other was of insufficient quality.’

‘Weasenham!’ exclaimed Jorz, overhearing and exchanging an angry glance with Riborowe. ‘That man delights in causing mischief. We should have let him drown in his paper vat today!’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Etone. ‘Those are unworthy sentiments for a friar.’

‘Well, he is going around telling everyone that Northwood did sell him the second exemplar, but that he kept the money for himself,’ said Jorz sulkily.

‘Then he deserves your compassion, not your ire, because the tale is clearly a lie,’ said Etone mildly. ‘He must be a deeply unhappy man to invent such tales about the dead.’

Jorz did not look convinced, and neither was Bartholomew. Weasenham had always seemed perfectly content to him, and had good reason to be, with his flourishing business, succession of pretty wives, and robust health.

‘What else do you do here?’ he asked. ‘Besides providing exemplars for the stationer?’

‘We produce bibles mostly, along with prayer books and psalters.’ Etone smiled, proud of his scriveners’ talents. ‘Obviously, we do not expect our illustrators to be able to
draw everything, so we encourage them to specialise in particular letters or specific animals. For example, Willelmus here excels at Js and As.’

Willelmus was a man of middle years, small and hunched, with the milky eyes of incipient blindness. Poor vision was an occupational hazard among illustrators, and Bartholomew wondered what he would do when he could no longer see well enough to work. Etone read his thoughts.

‘I shall make him parish priest at Girton soon,’ he whispered. ‘He objects, of course, as he loves being here. But he will need what remains of his eyesight to settle into his new life.’

‘I draw chickens, too,’ Willelmus was saying shyly, smiling up at Michael.

‘Chickens?’ asked the monk, amused. ‘Is there much call for fowl in sacred manuscripts, then?’

Willelmus nodded fervently. ‘You would be surprised at how often they can be inserted, Brother. They are lovable beasts, and it amuses me to immortalise them.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, regarding him as though he were short of a few wits.

‘Meanwhile, Jorz here does climbing foliage,’ boasted Etone. ‘And devils.’

Jorz smiled rather diabolically. ‘It is good to remind people that not everything is pretty flowers and happy hens. The occasional demon lurking in the greenery is a warning that Satan is never far away. People should remember this, even when reading their scriptures.’

‘There are rather more imps here than angels,’ remarked Michael, squinting over Jorz’s work. Willelmus was not the only one whose eyesight was not all it had been. ‘Is that appropriate?’

‘Prior Etone says I must not draw cherubs and devils
with the same hand,’ explained Jorz. ‘So I paint fiends with my left, which is comfortable, but I am clumsy with my right, so angels take longer and are not so fine when I have finished. That is why there are more demons.’

Etone shrugged when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I was afraid there might be an urge to make them overly similar, otherwise. And then where would we be, theologically speaking?’

‘I specialise in depicting weapons,’ declared Riborowe, cutting into the bemused silence that followed. ‘And my bows, bombards, swords and ribauldequins have dispatched many a chicken and sprite. I get the manuscripts last, you see, to add the finishing touches.’

Michael’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. ‘You amaze me! I would have thought there was even less demand for weapons in sacred texts than for poultry and denizens of Hell.’

‘The Bible is a very violent book,’ said Riborowe approvingly. ‘It is full of wars, battles, fights and murders, and people are always smiting enemies. So is God. Look at the ribauldequin I have drawn here. It is a perfect copy of the ones used at Poitiers.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Because I was there,’ declared Riborowe proudly. ‘I was a chaplain with the English army.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘How many more of our scholars are going to confess to taking part in that vicious occasion? We have three so far, with you, Holm and Matt.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Riborowe, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant glance before going to fetch more ink from a little antechamber at the far end of the room. He called back over his shoulder, as he went, ‘However,
I
did not wield a weapon and nor did I side with the French, like Holm.’

‘You are limping,’ observed Bartholomew. He might not
have remarked on it, but Dame Pelagia’s words about men with leg wounds clamoured at him, and Riborowe’s look had irritated him.

‘I tripped running away from a batch of ink that exploded,’ said the friar, rather coolly. He held up red-stained hands. ‘See the mess it made?’

‘When did—’ began Bartholomew.

‘Look at this manuscript,’ interrupted Jorz, brandishing a sheaf of pages that were a blaze of colour. ‘It is a gift for Sir Eustace Dunning – a Book of Hours.’

‘If we give it to him,’ said Etone grimly. ‘I have not forgiven him for depriving us of Newe Inn yet. Or for facilitating the establishment of a Common Library.’

‘Speaking of Newe Inn, do any of you know what Northwood was doing in its grounds?’ asked Michael. ‘Or why he should have been there with Vale and the London brothers?’

‘I have no idea at all,’ replied Riborowe. ‘We have a lovely garden here, in the friary.’

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Tuesday evening,’ supplied Riborowe. ‘He said he was going to find somewhere quiet to read. The next day, we noticed that his bed had not been slept in.’

‘Was that unusual?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Etone who answered. ‘No. He was an avid reader, even at night when he was obliged to use a lamp. He told me he was looking forward to your success with good fuel, Matthew, because Willelmus’s plight had shown him what happens to those who strain their eyes.’

‘I understand he liked alchemy,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he might have decided to investigate that particular matter himself, in competition with the
medici
?’

‘He might have done,’ said Etone, silencing Jorz’s immediate denial with a raised hand. ‘But I think he would
have told them. He had his failings, but deceit was not one of them.’

‘What failings?’ pounced Michael.

‘Voting in favour of the Common Library,’ said Riborowe immediately. ‘He was the only White Friar to flout our Prior’s instructions. None of the rest of us want such a vile place in our midst.’

‘No,’ agreed Etone. We considered the scheme inadvisable before Dunning provided Newe Inn for the purpose, but we are even more opposed to it now.’

‘That was Northwood’s only fault?’ probed Michael.

Etone sighed. ‘No. If you must know, he was vain about his intellect and impatient with those he deemed inferior.’

‘I never found that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the judgement uncharitable.

‘That is because he admired you, and went to some trouble to cultivate your friendship,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘He thought your mind was worthy of his notice. However, he was considerably less amiable with those who had not won his approbation.’

‘And he was a bully,’ Willelmus muttered, while the novices nodded fervently. ‘He worked the boys very hard, then dismissed their efforts as inadequate.’

‘He often made us stay late,’ added one. ‘And we were afraid that we would grow as blind as Willelmus, because he kept us here long after sunset, when we could barely see.’

‘For the money, it would seem,’ said Michael, ‘which he kept for himself.’

Etone pursed his lips. ‘He was not a thief, Brother. And if you do not believe me, then inspect his cell. You will find no ill-gotten gains there.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael agreeably. ‘Lead on.’

Etone was piqued that Michael was unwilling to take his word about Northwood’s probity, but ordered Riborowe to take the monk and his Corpse Examiner to the dormitory anyway. Sniffing, to indicate his disapproval, the thin priest led the way out of the scriptorium, across the yard, and up a flight of stairs. The dormitory was a large, airy room with flies buzzing around the rafters, and an enormous hearth at each end, to keep the friars warm during inclement weather.

The cubicle that had been occupied by Northwood was about halfway down. There was nothing in it except a bed, a box containing some writings on alchemy, and a spare habit.

‘You see?’ said Riborowe triumphantly. ‘These tales about his greed are lies.’