Murder by the Book (28 page)

‘You have your hands full already,’ Rougham explained
unctuously. ‘And we do not want to load you with even more work. How are they today, by the way?’

‘They are doing extremely well, thanks to me,’ said Holm, before Bartholomew could respond. ‘Of course, I shall not be paid for my hard work, but money is not everything.’

‘Is it not?’ asked Meryfeld, bemused.

Holm looked smug. ‘I earned far more than riches with my surgical skills yesterday – I earned the respect and adulation of the entire town. And that may be useful in the future.’

Bartholomew could not bear to listen to him, and changed the subject rather abruptly. ‘I have been meaning to warn you all of some danger. Hooded men waylaid me the other night, and demanded the formula for that burning substance we created. The wildfire.’

‘Why would anyone want to know that?’ asked Rougham uncomfortably.

‘I am not sure, but they threatened violence when I told them I could not recall it, so I recommend that you be on your guard.’

‘But we do not remember it, either,’ objected Meryfeld, alarmed. ‘Indeed, I can barely recall that night at all, let alone provide anyone with a detailed list of the ingredients we used.’

‘I recollect adding a lot of rubbish,’ mused Gyseburne. ‘Indeed, I think I tossed in a dash of slug juice at one point. But as to the specific formula, I have no clear memory …’

‘Well, I was not there,’ said Holm smugly. ‘So I need not be concerned.’

‘You should be – these villains might think we shared the secret with you,’ said Rougham.

‘But you never did!’ cried Holm, horrified by the notion.
‘I have asked for it on numerous occasions, but none of you are ever willing to discuss the matter.’

‘I wish we had not done it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘We devised a terrible thing.’

‘We did,’ agreed Gyseburne soberly. ‘Indeed, I wish I
could
remember the recipe, so we would know never to bring those particular ingredients together again.’

‘Well, I wish I could remember so we could sell it,’ stated Meryfeld baldly. ‘Someone will recreate the stuff at some point, so why should we not be the ones to reap the reward? Do not look so shocked, Bartholomew. Just think of all the good you could do with a large sum of money.’

‘The men who ambushed me were not interested in paying,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I was under the impression that they were going to kill me once they had what they wanted.’

‘Oh,’ said Meryfeld uncomfortably. ‘Well, that puts an entirely different complexion on it.’

‘Your antics had better not result in my murder,’ said Holm warningly, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘I am about to marry a woman who will make me very rich, and I have no intention of being dispatched before I have had the chance to enjoy my good fortune.’

‘It is true love, then, is it?’ asked Rougham acidly.

‘True love for her father’s money,’ confided Holm, treating his colleagues to a man-of-the-world wink. Bartholomew looked away.

‘
Our
best chance of earning a fortune lies in perfecting the recipe for lamp fuel,’ said Rougham, ignoring the surgeon and addressing the others. ‘I pondered the matter at length yesterday, and I believe our last brew would have worked better with a teaspoon of honey.’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. While he enjoyed the sessions with his colleagues, he
sometimes found their capacity for peculiarly random statements wearisome.

‘Because it is sticky,’ explained Rougham. ‘So it will bind the ingredients together in a more productive manner.’

‘It is worth a try,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew rolled his eyes. ‘And if that does not work, then I have been thinking, too. The addition of red lead will be beneficial.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Red lead has no known property that will—’

‘Open your mind,’ interrupted Rougham, gesturing expansively. ‘I do not understand why you are so unwilling to experiment, especially as you do it on your patients all the time.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for Rougham’s insults.

Rougham took a step away, unused to the physician taking issue with him. ‘I mean that you try new and unorthodox treatments on your clients, so why not do the same with the lamp fuel?’

‘I do nothing of the kind,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘All my treatments have either been effective in the past, or there are sound, logical reasons why they will work now. I would never—’

‘Urine,’ announced Gyseburne grandly. Thrown off his stride by the unexpected declaration, Bartholomew faltered into silence.

‘What about urine?’ asked Rougham warily.

‘It contains flammable properties,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘My mother told me so, and she is right, I am sure. She usually is.’

‘It can be combustible, under certain conditions,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering how Gyseburne’s
dam should have come by such information. Was she a witch? ‘But—’

‘Well, I like to live on the edge,’ said Holm drolly. ‘So red lead, honey and urine it is for next time, then. We shall reconvene tomorrow.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, as Meryfeld, Holm and Rougham marched away together, haughty and confident. ‘I am beginning to think we are wasting our time with them.’

‘All manner of great inventions have been discovered by chance,’ countered Gyseburne. ‘We may well stumble on something important by random testing.’

‘Not with the compounds they have recommended.’ Bartholomew was disgusted.

Gyseburne raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you
know
how urine will react when heated with pitch? No? Then do you
know
that red lead will remain inert when mixed with brimstone? No again! Do not dismiss us out of hand, Matthew. It is unbecoming in a man who expects tolerance for his own eccentricities.’

A clatter of hoofs in the bailey heralded the arrival of Tulyet and his men, back from the Fens. There was mud on their armour, and the Sheriff looked tired and out of sorts. He stamped over to Bartholomew and Gyseburne.

‘Give me a report,’ he ordered curtly.

‘A report about what?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the alarm from his voice. He was not ready to discuss Ayera with Tulyet – he wanted to tackle the geometrician alone first, and hear the explanation that he was sure would exonerate him.

‘About the health of my men, of course,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else would I want from you?’

Bartholomew supposed it should have been obvious,
and hastened to oblige. Tulyet listened intently, and was relieved when he heard the prognosis was generally good.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Although I shall never forgive myself for this debacle. How could it have happened? This is a castle, for God’s sake, and if we cannot defend ourselves, how can we expect people to believe that we are able to protect their town?’

‘They know you have learned from your complacency,’ said Gyseburne soothingly.

Tulyet winced. ‘Now perhaps you would do something else for me. The soldiers who died …’

‘Bringing them back is beyond our abilities,’ said Gyseburne sternly. ‘We are not necromancers.’

‘I do not expect you to raise the dead,’ snarled Tulyet. He put his hands over his face, and scrubbed hard. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to keep barking at you. I am very tired …’

‘Then rest,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘You will be no good to anyone if your wits are addled from exhaustion. Go home and sleep. Helbye will summon you if there is trouble.’

Tulyet nodded, although it was clear that he had no intention of complying. ‘Today was a waste of effort. Those villains outwitted me with sheep.’

Bartholomew exchanged a bemused glance with Gyseburne.

‘They drove a lot of ewes into the area through which they escaped,’ the Sheriff went on, ‘and not even Cynric could find their tracks among all the hoof-marks. We spent the whole day trying, but it was hopeless.’

‘The Fens are a wilderness,’ agreed Gyseburne. ‘Men disappear there, never to be seen again.’

Tulyet scowled. ‘I know, and it is frustrating when they happen to be men I want to catch. But enough of my
troubles. Will you examine my dead soldiers, and tell me exactly what happened to them? I would like to furnish their families with an accurate account of their final moments.’

‘Of course,’ said Gyseburne, although Tulyet had been looking at Bartholomew. He set off towards the chapel, a wooden building set against the curtain wall, at a businesslike clip.

‘I am not sure what to think about him,’ whispered Tulyet, following. ‘He seems obliging and competent, but I sense something deeply unpleasant beneath that amiable veneer.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I have always liked him.’

‘You like everyone, and it is a failing you should strive to overcome.’ Tulyet sighed dispiritedly. ‘I did not want to admit it in front of him, but I still have no idea who was responsible for that damned raid – and even less idea how to go about finding out.’

‘Robin thought Coslaye of Batayl Hostel was among the invaders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Coslaye was at the Carmelite Priory when the attack took place, so Robin was mistaken.’

‘Pity.’ Tulyet saw Bartholomew’s startled expression and hastened to explain. ‘It would have given me a place to start.’

‘I will listen for rumours,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘And will tell you if I hear anything.’

‘Thank you, but you will not,’ said Tulyet morosely. ‘The attack was by strangers, not folk from the town. There will be no useful rumours, because the culprits do not live here.’

‘Walkelate disagrees. He thinks they are locals, as they knew where you keep your money.’

‘Then his reasoning is flawed: the Great Tower is the
most secure part of the castle, so of course we will lock our valuables there. You do not need local knowledge to guess that.’

They followed Gyseburne in silence for a moment, then Bartholomew began speaking again.

‘I was waylaid by cloaked and hooded men on Wednesday. They wanted to know the formula for the wildfire my colleagues and I made last winter – the substance that could not be doused.’

Tulyet shot him a pained glance. ‘I forbade my son to talk about what he had witnessed that night, but he rarely obeys me. In other words, I suspect it is fairly common knowledge that you are the one most likely to recollect which ingredients were used. Did you recognise these villains?’

‘They were heavily disguised. Michael’s grandmother drove them off with knives.’

‘Dame Pelagia is back?’ asked Tulyet, alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘To hunt down a French spy, apparently.’

‘Then I hope she does not need my help,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Because I cannot oblige her as long as there is a hostile band of mercenaries lurking in the Fens.’

Inspecting the dead soldiers was a bleak business. Some were men Bartholomew had known for years, and he was acutely aware that they had kin relying on the wage they earned. Tulyet would not let their families starve, but it would not be easy for them, even so. He inspected each man with considerable sadness, calling out specific causes of death to Willelmus, the Carmelites’ scribe, who stood with pen and parchment at the ready. Gyseburne left the chapel when they had finished, eager to be back among the living, but Tulyet had yet another favour to ask of Bartholomew.

‘I need you to tend Ayce again. He is refusing to eat, and I do not want him to die just yet. He may decide to talk to me in a day or two, so it is important to keep him alive.’

It was hardly a pleasant mission, but Bartholomew agreed to do it. He was following Tulyet out of the chapel when he saw a peculiar collection of tubes, ratchets and wheels. He stopped dead in his tracks.

‘That is the ribauldequin I was telling you about,’ explained the Sheriff. ‘The one we made for the King as part-payment of our yearly taxes.’

Bartholomew shuddered, recalling all too clearly the ones at Poitiers. Tulyet’s creation had the same unholy malevolence, and the holes at the end of its muzzles looked for all the world like spiteful eyes.

‘Does it work?’ he asked.

‘I hope so, but we cannot test it because we have no ammunition. However, if it fails, it will not be our fault – we should have been sent more detailed instructions. Indeed, were it not for Langelee, Walkelate, Riborowe and Chancellor Tynkell, we would not have got this far.’

‘I wish they had refused. The device is immoral – they should have had nothing to do with it.’

Tulyet eyed him balefully. ‘Fortunately for me, they do not concur. Indeed, they all told me that University-trained minds will be an essential ingredient for developing better artillery in the future – that warfare will remain primitive without their input.’

Bartholomew was disgusted, but supposed he should not be surprised. Academics were always intrigued by the kind of problem that only intelligence could solve. He looked at the ribauldequin with distaste. ‘It is hardly the sort of thing that should be kept in a chapel, Dick.’

‘It was in the Great Tower, but we had to move it when we reorganised everything to accommodate your infirmary.
I shall be glad when it has gone from here, though – my chaplains will insist on draping their wet laundry over it, and it is beginning to rust.’

A sudden, alarming thought occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think this is why the robbers came? They wanted your weapon to use in their next attack?’

Tulyet regarded him rather patronisingly. ‘You cannot stage lightning strikes if you are loaded down with heavy pieces of artillery. It was the tax money they wanted, Matt, not this.’

Bartholomew did not know enough of military tactics to know whether Tulyet was right or wrong.

He insisted on going alone to Ayce’s cell, suspecting that Tulyet’s angry presence would be counterproductive. Ayce was sitting on the floor, rejecting the bed and stool that had been provided for his use. Bread and a greasy stew stood untouched by the door.

‘I will not talk to you,’ growled Ayce. ‘So do not waste your time with questions.’

‘It is the Sheriff who has questions, not me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am just a physician.’

Ayce hesitated for a moment. ‘I was injured in the fighting, and it throbs horribly. Perhaps I shall accept your services, because I cannot think clearly through the pain.’