Murder by the Book (38 page)

‘There was no evidence of burning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not on their clothes or their bodies.’

‘Then I was right all along,’ said Cynric with immense satisfaction. ‘They entered a place that belonged to the Devil, and he claimed them for his own.’

The day had turned hot and sultry, and there was not so much as a breath of wind. Michael grumbled bitterly as they walked along the High Street, aiming for the castle and Willelmus.

‘I was not designed for all this racing around,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. ‘And we have missed the midday meal. Of course, that is no great tragedy, given the quality of food at Michaelhouse these days. Even dinner on Trinity Sunday was dismal.’

Mention of College meals reminded Bartholomew of his concerns about his colleagues.

‘Do you think Ayera threw in his lot with the robbers because he wants to save us from debt?’ he asked worriedly. ‘The man who was caught – Ayce – said he and his fellow mercenaries had been very well paid.’

Michael nodded. ‘It is possible. Ayera was deeply disappointed when nothing came from his uncle’s benefaction. Embarrassed, too, after raising our hopes. His family lent him the money to buy the horse he wants, but the loan will have to be repaid – not easy on a Fellow’s salary.’

‘Then do you think that Langelee learned what Ayera
was doing, and agreed to look the other way for a share of his earnings?’

‘Or for a chance to enrol with the robbers himself,’ said Michael soberly. ‘He was a warrior once, and we know from our recent journey to York that he has forgotten none of his brutish skills. Moreover, he takes his duties as Master seriously, and might see this as an opportunity to raise some quick and much-needed cash.’

Bartholomew agreed unhappily. ‘It would certainly explain why he prevented me from asking Ayera any more questions, and why Clippesby has seen them leaving the College at odd hours.’

‘Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael, his face pale. ‘If Dick Tulyet ever finds out …’

He did not need to finish, because Bartholomew knew exactly the damage it would do. Langelee and Ayera would be obliged to resign – or worse; Tulyet might demand reparation from Michaelhouse that would plunge it even deeper into debt; and the King would be furious to learn that scholars had set greedy eyes on his taxes. The harm caused by such an incident would be vast, and although Bartholomew was generally opposed to concealing unsavoury secrets, this was one he would be more than happy to suppress.

As they approached the Jewry, they saw Weasenham sitting outside his shop. Ruth and Bonabes were just inside the door, she polishing some inkwells and he sharpening quills. Weasenham was watching passers-by with calculating eyes. He turned his head occasionally, to regale his wife and Exemplarius with his observations, but neither were paying him much attention.

‘I hear there have been nine deaths connected with libraries now,’ he called to Bartholomew and Michael as they passed. ‘It seems they are deadly places.’

‘They are nothing of the kind,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘So please do not spread silly tales.’

‘How can you deny it?’ demanded Weasenham. ‘I heard Walkelate telling Chancellor Tynkell about the snake that killed Kente, and the whole affair sounded downright sinister!’

‘You should not have eavesdropped,’ murmured Ruth. ‘It was not decent, especially given that Walkelate was obviously distressed. It was distasteful.’

‘The discussion took place in my shop,’ said Weasenham indignantly. ‘I have a right to listen to what is said in my own business premises.’

‘It was a private conversation,’ said Bonabes quietly. ‘Not intended for our ears.’

Weasenham turned away impatiently. ‘It seems to me, Brother, that some fiend is at large, dispatching scholars in libraries. You had better catch him, and fast.’

Michael was about to take issue with him when Riborowe and Jorz arrived with a list of supplies needed for their scriptorium. Weasenham leapt to his feet to see to them personally – the Carmelites were valued customers – although it was obvious that the stationer intended to ply them with his theories at the same time.

‘Jorz told me about your snake, Bartholomew,’ whispered Riborowe as he passed. ‘It proves what I have always suspected: that you are a warlock in the pay of Satan.’

Bartholomew groaned, knowing he would tell Weasenham what had happened by the river, and the tale would be all over the town by nightfall. Bonabes and Ruth emerged from the shop as the scribes entered, ‘accidentally’ brushing each other’s fingers. It was clear they were in love, and Bartholomew was sorry that Weasenham’s disagreeable presence meant they would never be together.

‘My husband has decided not to open the shop on
Thursday,’ Ruth told the scholars. ‘And I shall bury all our valuables in the garden tomorrow. These horrible raiders are not going to get rich on our hard-earned money.’

‘They will not come,’ said Bonabes. He sounded exasperated, as if it was a subject they had discussed before, but could not agree upon. ‘Why would they? They have been repelled once. Besides, the tales that say they plan to attack derive from a baseless story started by Weasenham.’

‘I am going to hide the more expensive ingredients we use in our paper-making experiments, too,’ Ruth went on, ignoring him. ‘It is unlikely that thieves will want to tote heavy pots when they leave, but you cannot be too careful, and I should not like to think of some of those compounds in such hands. They can be dangerous.’

‘You do not have any rock oil, do you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We did,’ replied Bonabes. ‘But when I went to fetch it this morning, it had gone.’

‘I suspect the London brothers had it,’ said Ruth. ‘Probably to use when they were with Northwood. If you happen across it during your enquiries, we would not mind it back. It is costly and difficult to obtain.’

‘Why did you want it this morning?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed.

‘I was going to give some to Riborowe,’ explained Bonabes. ‘He read somewhere that it has drying properties, and asked if he might have a bit for his ink.’

‘But it had gone?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘All of it?’

Bonabes nodded. ‘Although I suppose it does not really matter. We discovered early on that it is no good for manufacturing paper.’

‘I have a terrible feeling that none of this will matter
after Thursday,’ said Ruth, like a dog with a bone. ‘The invaders will have razed our town to the ground by then.’

‘You seem very sure this attack will happen,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts from wildfire to robbers.

‘She is,’ said Bonabes. He smiled fondly at her, to take the sting from his words. ‘But she is wrong. They will not strike again, because they have lost the element of surprise.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.

He nodded a farewell to them, and fell into step at Michael’s side as they resumed their walk to the castle. Michael was troubled.

‘So now we learn that the London brothers stole expensive materials for their experiments and … Blast! Here comes Cynric. Now what? Will we never get to speak to Willelmus?’

‘Batayl has just sent word,’ Cynric said. ‘Apparently, Browne is missing. He has been gone since last night, but as he has taken none of his belongings with him, his students fear the worst.’

Batayl Hostel had altered dramatically since Bartholomew and Michael had last visited. The vivid mural had been obliterated with a smart wash of white, and the sour smell of feet and burnt fat was overlain by the sweeter scent of rose petals. Bartholomew could only suppose that Holm had supplied his lover Browne with them, as he had supplied Walkelate with a remedy for Newe Inn’s reeking oil.

‘Browne made some changes when he declared himself Principal,’ explained Pepin, assuming the role of spokesman in the absence of his seniors. ‘I, for one, was glad to see the painting go.’

‘I am sure you were,’ said Michael, looking hard at him. ‘It cannot have been pleasant for you, seeing your countrymen depicted as demons wading through oceans of blood.’

‘No, and I often felt like punching Coslaye.’ Pepin flushed when he realised the remark was somewhat incriminating. ‘But I did not kill him. That was someone else – someone who is eager for the Common Library to open, and who was afraid Coslaye might have interfered.’

‘Would he have interfered?’ asked Michael.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Pepin. ‘He planned to smear dung and mortar over Newe Inn’s windows – a combination of materials that will set hard and that would have been difficult to scour off. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was not a man to listen to reason.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘Not about the library. And not about the French, either.’

‘He hates us,’ said Pepin quietly. ‘Yet there is no need. Poitiers did us irreparable damage, and we are no threat to England now. It shattered our army, dealt our pride a mortal blow, killed the flower of our nobility, and took our King prisoner. We are in chaos, unable to pay the ransoms you have demanded, and our peasants are set to rise up against their masters.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, a little impatiently. He had not come to debate France’s problems. ‘But let us discuss Browne. I understand he and Holm are … close.’

‘Lovers,’ nodded Pepin. ‘We do not mind that – ladies are hard to come by in Cambridge, so a man must take comfort where he can – but we disapprove of Holm. He is devious and conceited, and only made friends with Browne because his cousin knows the King. We hate him.’

‘When did you last see Browne?’ asked Michael.

‘Last night.’ Pepin gnawed his lip uneasily. ‘And we have a bad feeling about him going missing. All his belongings are here, including Apollodorus’s
Poliorcetica
, which was his pride and joy. He would not have gone anywhere without taking that with him.’

‘A book on sieges and war?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling Deynman’s distress over what had been done to Michaelhouse’s copy.

‘It was a gift from Holm,’ explained Pepin. ‘I cannot imagine what would have happened when he got married, and thus became unavailable. Perhaps it is better this way.’

‘You speak as though you think Browne is dead,’ observed Bartholomew.

Pepin nodded, and so did his fellow students. ‘We believe Holm killed him, because he was afraid that Julitta would find out about their friendship and cancel the
wedding. Holm is desperate to have her money, you see, and will not let anything – not even Browne – stand in his way.’

‘I shall instruct my beadles to look for Browne,’ said Michael. ‘And we shall pay a visit to Holm now. Meanwhile, your disputations will be soon, so I recommend that you concentrate on your exemplars today. Stay here, and leave the hunt to me.’

Pepin nodded acquiescence. ‘As you wish.’

Michael started to leave, but then paused. ‘My grandmother claims that Angoulême – your birthplace – has a large paper-making industry, but I think she is mistaken. Am I right, or is she?’

Pepin gave a tight smile. ‘You are, Brother. Angoulême has never produced paper.’

‘Just as I thought,’ said Michael with a small bow. ‘Thank you.’

Bartholomew followed him outside, but there was no time to enquire why he had asked Pepin such an odd question, because the monk was already knocking on Holm’s door.

‘What do you want?’ the surgeon demanded, answering it himself. ‘I am busy.’

The fact that his clothes were rumpled, and he was stifling a yawn, suggested his business involved sleeping, even though it was the middle of the day.

‘Browne is missing, and his students are worried,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘They think you and he might have had a lovers’ tiff.’

Holm scowled, then indicated with an irritable flap of his hand that Michael and Bartholomew were to step into his house. Glancing furtively up and down the lane to assess whether anyone else had heard the monk’s remark, he then closed the door.

Once inside, Bartholomew saw Julitta’s hand everywhere, from the tasteful rugs on the floor, to the cushions on the benches and the way the silver goblets had been arranged on the table. There was even a small library, which he supposed she had assembled for their married life together.

‘Browne and I are not lovers,’ the surgeon said, walking to the table and pouring himself some wine. He did not offer any to his guests. ‘The Batayl lads have never liked me, and they fabricated that vile accusation to show me in a bad light.’

‘It is not just Batayl,’ said Michael. ‘We have heard it from others, too. Indeed, half the town seems to know you prefer Browne to your hapless fiancée.’

Holm’s expression hardened. ‘Well, perhaps I do, although I shall take legal action against anyone who tells her so before we are married.’

‘When did you last see Browne?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to mask his distaste.

‘Yesterday evening,’ replied Holm icily. ‘However, the louts of Batayl were with him long after I had made my farewells, so do not look to me as the last man who saw him alive.’

‘Now
you
seem convinced he is dead,’ said Michael.

Holm shrugged. ‘He was not popular with his students, so it stands to reason. They are a vicious horde, and I imagine they are responsible for braining Coslaye, too.’

‘Do you have any evidence to say that?’ asked Michael.

‘Yes – the evidence of common sense.’

‘Browne was your lover, yet you do not seem upset by his disappearance,’ mused Michael. ‘Why not? Because you know he is alive, so grieving is unnecessary? Or because you have experienced a cooling of affection for each other?’

‘Neither. I am devastated, actually, but my father taught me never to show needless emotions. He said it is unbecoming in a medical man.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful as they left the surgeon’s cottage. ‘Do you think he
has
dispatched Browne, perhaps because Browne learned some of his sinister secrets?’

‘What sinister secrets?’ asked Michael. ‘And do not say his preference for men, because I doubt Browne sees that as a crime, given that he is like-minded.’

‘What about his greedy determination to have Julitta’s dowry?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Or the fact that he sided with the French at Poitiers? Or his lies, hollow boasts and cowardice?’