Murder by the Book (17 page)

‘Unless someone guessed that we might inspect his possessions, and made sure all was in order,’ said Michael sombrely. Bartholomew had been thinking the same thing.

‘That is a dreadful charge to lay at our door!’ declared Riborowe indignantly. ‘How dare you!’

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘I have a legal and an ethical obligation to find out what happened to Northwood, and if that means poking into matters that are awkward, distressing or embarrassing, then that is what I must do. I take no pleasure from it, and nor will I gossip about what I learn, but it must be done if the truth is to come out.’

Riborowe softened when he sensed the monk’s sincerity. ‘Very well. Northwood
was
vain about his intellect, and he
was
strict with the novices. However, he did
not
sell exemplars to profit himself – he was not that kind of man. He was your friend, Bartholomew: you know I am right.’

‘It is true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Northwood was not interested in material wealth, only in expanding his mind and learning more about alchemy.’

‘His fondness for flinging potions together was not a virtue,’ said Riborowe stiffly. ‘It led him into dubious company – such as yours, Bartholomew, and that of the Londons and Vale. I cannot imagine why he sought
them
out. The brothers were stupid, while Vale was plain nasty. Jorz and I are decent alchemists – look at our experiments with ink – so why could he not have been satisfied with us?’

‘Where did he meet them?’ demanded Michael. ‘And when?’

‘In Weasenham’s shop, in St Mary the Great, talking in Cholles Lane.’ Riborowe shrugged. ‘They were always chatting. The last time I saw all four together was perhaps five days ago. They were laughing, although Northwood declined to share the joke when I asked what was so amusing.’

‘In other words, their society was friendly?’ asked Michael. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew: Vale would not have been guffawing with Northwood if the Carmelite had been blackmailing him.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Riborowe, puzzled. ‘Why would it not be?’

‘There is some suggestion that Northwood discovered Vale had a lover,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘He never mentioned it to me,’ said Riborowe, startled. ‘He was not a gossip.’

Michael indicated that he had finished his search, and Riborowe led them back down the stairs and across the yard to the gate.

‘I am not sure what to think, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘To you, Northwood was a kindly philosopher; to his novices and Willelmus, he was a tyrant; to Weasenham, he was dishonest; to Etone and his fellow
friars, he was an eccentric academic; to Rougham, he was a competitor in the race to produce fuel; and to Vale, he was a blackmailer. Which is the real man?’

Bartholomew had no reply, uncomfortable with what they had learned about a person he thought he had known. To avoid addressing the issue, he changed the direction of the discussion.

‘Perhaps Vale concocted this tale about a lover, so that Rougham would not berate him over voting for the Common Library. Rougham keeps a lady himself, so would certainly be sympathetic to the notion of being blackmailed over one.’

‘Yes, but why did Vale vote against his College’s wishes in the first place?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Gonville’s medical books are all very traditional. Perhaps he hoped there would be a wider choice in a Common Library.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yet Northwood was determined that our University should have a central repository for books. He was passionate about it, in fact. And it would not be the first time a scholar did something underhand to get his own way, believing himself to be in the right.’

Again, Bartholomew had no answer.

Once away from the Carmelite Priory, Michael aimed for Newe Inn, to re-examine the place where the four scholars had died. Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling they were wasting their time.

‘Do you have any theories about what happened yet?’ he asked, watching the monk poke the edge of the pond with a stick. ‘Or suspects?’

‘Not really. However, on reflection, I think you are right about Vale: he did lie about having a lover to avoid Rougham’s censure for taking for the wrong side at the
Convocation. Of course, the only way to be sure is to ask Ruth.’

‘I doubt she will tell you.’ Bartholomew began to pick some late-flowering lily of the valley. It was useful in remedies for dropsy, and there was so much growing by the pond that he did not think anyone would mind him harvesting a bit. It was past its full glory, but would still do what he wanted. ‘She has nothing to gain by confessing to adultery.’

Michael grimaced. ‘True, but we shall have to make the attempt, anyway. So what have you deduced? And please do not tell me that you believe God is responsible. Or the Devil.’

‘I am fairly sure Northwood, Vale and the Londons were poisoned.’ Bartholomew spread his hands, both full of flowers. ‘I can think of no other reason why they should have died at the same time – and we know they
did
die at the same time, because Clippesby saw them all alive together on Tuesday night. He told me himself.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘Then who did it? And why?’

‘Not my medical colleagues,’ said Bartholomew immediately, stuffing the flowers into his bag. ‘Perhaps Northwood did recruit friends to help him experiment with lamp fuel after Rougham rejected his offer of help, but none of us would have felt strongly enough about it to kill them.’

Michael gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Not you, perhaps, but the others would! Moreover, if anyone knows how to poison people without leaving evidence, it is a
medicus
. And just look at the choices: Meryfeld is greedy and ruthless; Rougham is arrogant and vengeful; Gyseburne is enigmatic and inscrutable; and Edith says Holm is greasy.’

‘But none of them are killers,’ said Bartholomew firmly.
‘However, the notion that all four victims voted for the Common Library disturbs me. Do you think that is why they were killed?’

‘I am inclined to say no, because several hundred scholars from the hostels also supported the scheme, and none of them are dead. Of course, none came from foundations that had ordered them to vote the other way.’

‘Do you think I am in danger, then?’

‘It is possible, so you had better take Cynric with you when you go out at night from now on. He can protect you from men who demand formulae for wildfire, too.’ Michael stopped poking at the pond. ‘Do you think Sawtre was murdered as well – that his “accident” was anything but?’

‘King’s Hall seems happy to blame an unstable piece of furniture, and there is nothing to suggest they are wrong. Of course, there is nothing to say they are right, either.’

Michael tapped his leg with the stick, thinking. ‘What do you think of Browne as a culprit? I know he has friends at King’s Hall, so getting into the place would be easy for him. He found the four bodies, too. Experience tells me to look closely at the fellow who raises the alarm.’

‘Well, he certainly disapproves of the Common Library. Do you think Coslaye helped him?’

‘Possibly. I shall have to interrogate them soon, although it will not be easy when there are no facts to encourage them to confess.’

Bartholomew followed him along the path, back towards the library building. ‘You are due to make your report to Dunning soon. What will you tell him?’

Michael shrugged. ‘The truth: that the four men who died here were almost certainly killed unlawfully, but that we have no idea by whom or why. I hope he does not
decide that the information is not worth a meal, because I am hungry.’

They passed the library as they aimed for the gate, which rang with the sounds of industry as usual. Someone was whistling as he worked, a tune that marked time with the rap of a hammer, and apprentices were sweeping sawdust into bags, ready to be sold to farmers.

‘It has just started, Doctor,’ called one lad. He was Alfred de Blaston, a youth whose family had been Bartholomew’s patients for years. ‘If you hurry, you will not have missed much.’

‘What has started?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘The tour of the library for future benefactors,’ explained Alfred impatiently. ‘I am sure you will be a donor, because you are very rich.’

‘I am?’ Bartholomew was astonished to hear so.

Alfred nodded. ‘Of course, or you would not have been able to provide my little brother with milksops and free medicine all winter.’

Michael grinned. ‘Now I shall know whom to approach when I need to borrow some money. But I would not mind participating in this tour, and we have enough time before dinner.’

They arrived to find Walkelate standing on the stairs, addressing a group of men and women. There were perhaps thirty of them, and they included Chancellor Tynkell, burgesses from the Guild of Corpus Christi and a number of senior scholars. Tynkell was alarmed when he saw Michael, and sidled through the assembly towards him. The Chancellor rarely looked healthy, mostly because of his unfortunate aversion to hygiene, but he seemed especially pallid that day.

‘Please do not make any remarks that will put them off,
Brother,’ he begged. ‘It will not be much of a library without books, and that is the purpose of this gathering – to secure donations.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why was I not told about it?’

‘Because I was afraid you would cause trouble,’ explained Tynkell bluntly. ‘A few well-chosen words from you will see these would-be benefactors turn tail and run.’

‘Do you really consider me so petty?’ Michael was indignant.

The Chancellor did not deign to answer.

‘And now, if you will follow me upstairs, I shall show you the library proper,’ announced Walkelate, beaming at the throng and clearly delighted to be showing off his work.

The visitors began to shuffle up the steps, cooing at the carved handrail and the decorative corbels. The hammering and sawing that had been echoing around the garden promptly stopped. Bartholomew, Tynkell and Michael joined the end of the party.

‘It is a remarkable achievement,’ Bartholomew said, looking around appreciatively and noting in particular the lifelike features of Aristotle. ‘The craftsmen have worked wonders.’

‘It is beautiful,’ conceded Michael grudgingly. ‘The hostel men will enjoy coming here, although such splendour is wasted on them. Is that Dunning over there, talking to Weasenham?’

The Chancellor nodded. ‘He is often here, checking on progress, while Weasenham has promised us several very expensive books and a large number of exemplars. They are both vital to the success of this scheme, so please be nice to them, Brother.’

‘I shall be my usual charming self,’ promised Michael, surging forward.

‘That is what I was afraid of,’ said Tynkell worriedly to Bartholomew. ‘So I had better ingratiate myself with the Frevill clan. Several are wealthy, and their kinsman works here, so perhaps they will provide us with books, should Michael’s “charming self” do any damage.’

Bartholomew watched him approach several tall, well-built gentlemen, one of whom was the carpenter he had met before. Frevill saw Bartholomew looking at him, and came to talk.

‘We cannot really afford to stop work and deal with visitors,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Not if we are to finish in the allotted time. But Walkelate says securing well-wishers is important, so …’

‘You look tired,’ said Bartholomew, seeing lines of weariness etched deep into the man’s face.

‘So do you,’ countered Frevill, smiling. ‘But I am well, although I worry about Kente. He suffers from dizzy spells, and I am sure it is the long hours he keeps. Will you speak to him?’

As he followed Frevill into the adjoining room, Bartholomew heard Michael ask Weasenham – loudly – whether he had recovered from his mishap in the paper vat. The question brought a gale of laughter from those who heard it, and Tynkell winced at Weasenham’s furious glare.

The room containing the
libri concatenati
stank of the oil that had been used to stain the wood. It was not unpleasant, but it was strong, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Kente was light-headed. The craftsman was sitting atop the
cista
, treating an exquisitely carved lectern to a liberal smothering of brown grease.

‘This will make it shine like burnished gold,’ Kente said, glancing up when Frevill and Bartholomew approached. He was pale, but there was genuine pleasure
in his face. ‘I am looking forward to the opening next week.’

‘Your paste reeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Frevill says you have not been feeling well.’

‘Nothing that a few days’ rest will not cure,’ said Kente, waving his concerns away. ‘And I shall have those next week, once this place is finished. We are very close now.’

‘Try to go outside occasionally,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘For fresh air.’

‘I do not need fresh air,’ stated Kente scornfully. ‘I have been inhaling this lovely oil all my life, and I like its scent.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after, we shall close this room to keep it pristine while we add the finishing touches to the
libri distribuendi
next door. That chamber is slightly behind schedule, but nothing we cannot rectify with a bit of hard work.’

There was little that Bartholomew could do if Kente declined to listen to him. He shrugged to Frevill, and began to wander, smiling when he saw Michael’s chubby features in a carving depicting the feeding of the five thousand. He half listened to the discussions of the benefactors around him, pleased when he heard several begin to compete with each other’s generosity.

‘My entire collection of breviaries,’ declared Stanmore to the head of the Frevill clan.

‘The complete works of Bradwardine,’ countered Frevill. ‘Religious and philosophical.’

‘And I shall donate my bestiary,’ said a quietly spoken scholar from Bene’t College named Rolee.

‘You will?’ blurted Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Does your College not have an opinion about that? Bene’t is one of this place’s most fervent opponents.’

Rolee nodded. ‘I know, and I voted against it myself, as I was ordered. But now I see it, I wish I had given it my
support. It is a grand venture, and one that is a credit to our
studium generale
. When my colleagues see it for themselves, they will think the same.’