Murder by the Book (43 page)

Bartholomew did not respond, reluctantly conceding that perhaps his dislike of Holm
did
stem from his admiration for Julitta, and it was jealousy speaking. Yet he knew, with every fibre of his being, that there was something amiss with the surgeon, something dark and unpleasant.

‘We had better go to Cholles Lane again,’ said Michael. ‘The more I think about it, the more I feel that place holds the key to unravelling our mysteries.’

‘Yes – it is where Holm lives,’ pounced Bartholomew.

This time it was Michael’s turn not to reply. They met Clippesby as they turned the corner. The Dominican looked fretful, and his habit was stained with wet mud.

‘Frevill,’ he said without preamble. ‘As we could not find Langelee or Ayera, I decided to watch for reconnoitring raiders instead. The water voles invited me to hide near their homes.’

‘They should not have done,’ said Bartholomew, worried for him. ‘These robbers are dangerous men.’

‘Very,’ agreed Clippesby soberly. ‘They even bested Dame Pelagia, although you helped her escape. I was glad, because the voles and I could not have done it.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, alarmed.

Bartholomew waved him quiet. ‘What did you hear? What is this about Frevill?’

‘He is one of the raiders,’ replied Clippesby. ‘The voles saw his face quite clearly. He was talking to several other armed men here, in Cholles Lane, and he was issuing them with orders.’

‘Which Frevill?’ asked Michael. ‘The Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, who has been spiriting his family and valuables out of harm’s way these past two days? Perhaps because he knows for a fact what is about to befall his town?’

‘No, his carpenter kinsman, who works at the Common Library,’ replied Clippesby.

‘I imagine he would be too weary for such antics,’ said Michael dismissively, beginning to walk away. ‘Walkelate has been driving his artisans very hard.’

‘Wait!’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Isnard claimed Frevill hit him earlier, and knocked him out of his wits.’

‘Why would Frevill do that?’ asked Michael, bemused.

Bartholomew thought fast. ‘Isnard must have seen or heard something he should not have done. Unfortunately, he was too drunk to make sense of it. The blow was a vicious one, and I think Frevill meant to kill him – which means he must have wanted Isnard silenced very badly.’

‘Quite,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘Isnard is lucky his throat was not cut, too, like poor Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman.’

Michael was silent for a moment, thinking, then he turned to Clippesby. ‘Tell the Sheriff what you saw. But please do it properly: say what
you
witnessed, and leave the water voles out of it.’

‘Yes, Brother.’ Clippesby sped away.

Michael looked down Cholles Lane. ‘I was right about this place, Matt. There is something untoward unfolding here.’

As the evening shadows lengthened, Bartholomew and Michael walked up the library stairs to find Walkelate sitting by the
cista
. He was alone, and the place felt oddly abandoned without craftsmen and apprentices bustling about. Even Aristotle, gazing down from his lofty perch, seemed forlorn.

‘The work is finished at last,’ Walkelate said softly. ‘Although Kente’s death has cast a pall over it, and I shall not enjoy the opening ceremony without him at my side.’

‘I am afraid I have more bad news for you,’ said Michael. ‘We have just learned that Frevill has been consorting with the raiders.’

Walkelate gave a pained smile. ‘I appreciate your efforts at humour, Brother, but I am not in the mood. And that is not a particularly amusing joke, anyway. Frevill is—’

‘It is no joke,’ said Michael. ‘We have a reliable … we have a witness. Where is Frevill?’

Walkelate’s kindly face crumpled into a mask of dismay. ‘But he cannot be involved with the robbers! He has been toiling with me these last six weeks, and has had no time to—’

‘You do not work at night.’ Michael interrupted a
second time. ‘Which is when this gang meets local traitors, who guide them around the town, pointing out our weaknesses.’

‘No! I will not believe this!’ Walkelate turned at the sound of feet on the stairs. ‘Dunning! Thank God! Brother Michael is saying some terrible things about Frevill. Please stop him.’

‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Dunning, when Michael had repeated his accusations. ‘You have been working too hard, Brother, and it has addled your wits.’

‘He is right,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘Perhaps a rest will—’

‘We cannot rest,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Our scholars are still bitterly divided over this wretched library, and there will be trouble unless we can pre-empt it.’

‘There will be no trouble,’ stated Dunning impatiently. ‘When your scholars see this fine building, even its most fervent detractors will change their minds. It will be a fabulous success, and Walkelate and I will be hailed as visionaries for seeing it through.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Walkelate dubiously. ‘Because I am extremely nervous. Suppose people say there is too much beech? Or that the shelves are too low …’

‘When did you last see Frevill?’ demanded Michael, not interested in the architect’s insecurities. ‘And please think carefully, because the safety of our town may depend on it.’

Walkelate gulped. ‘Last night. I told him he need not come today, as we have finished.’

‘I have not seen him, either,’ said Dunning. ‘But he has lived in Cambridge all his life, and would never harm it. His family is powerful and respected here.’

‘Look for Frevill in the stationer’s shop,’ said Walkelate suddenly. ‘The Carmelites promised labels for our shelves, but Jorz’s death has thrown them into confusion. Frevill
mentioned last night that he might ask Weasenham to provide us with an alternative set.’

‘He may have gone to order them, I suppose,’ said Dunning. ‘He
was
worried that the Carmelites would not fulfil their obligations in time.’

Walkelate stood. ‘I shall come with you to find out.’

Bartholomew and Michael set off at a trot towards the High Street, the architect at their heels. Neither Michaelhouse man spoke. Michael was too breathless from what was a very rapid pace, while Bartholomew’s mind was teeming with questions and worries. Their silence allowed Walkelate to indulge in an agitated monologue about the height of his shelves.

It was dusk, and the holiday atmosphere had intensified since morning: people were determined to enjoy themselves no matter what. Most were armed, though, and Bartholomew was alarmed to see that many scholars were, too, despite the fact that they could be fined for carrying knives, swords and sticks. All were heading home, however, and it would not be long before the streets were deserted.

They reached Weasenham’s shop to find its windows shuttered, and the stationer escorting out the last of his customers. It was Riborowe, laden down with several heavy packages.

‘Someone has started a rumour that the Devil haunts our priory,’ Riborowe said angrily. Weasenham’s face went suspiciously bland. ‘But Jorz and Northwood were
not
killed by Satan.’

‘Well, they did not die because libraries are dangerous, either,’ said Walkelate firmly. ‘Whoever started that stupid story is a wicked villain who deserves to rot in Hell for his lies. I only hope the tale does not prevent people from using Newe Inn.’

‘I wish I owned a ribauldequin,’ muttered Riborowe, regarding the architect with naked hatred. ‘I would set it on our highest wall, and blast anyone who entered that accursed place.’

‘You would be just as likely to blast yourself,’ Walkelate flashed back. ‘You know as well as I do that those machines are extremely unreliable and a danger to their operators.’

‘Yet you still helped Sheriff Tulyet to build one,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply.

‘Because I could see that he would make dangerous mistakes without me,’ explained Walkelate. ‘What would you have done? Let him produce a device that would definitely maim its crew? Or help him devise one that would at least give them a fighting chance?’

‘Bartholomew would have produced one that kills soldiers on both sides,’ said Riborowe unpleasantly, before the physician could think of a suitable reply. ‘Because that would please Satan.’

The Carmelite put his head in the air and sailed away while Bartholomew winced. Weasenham was listening, and would almost certainly repeat the remark to his other customers.

Unwilling to ask his questions in the street, Michael barrelled past the stationer and entered the shop. There was a brief scuffle within, and Bonabes and Ruth shot away from each other. Surreptitiously, Ruth straightened her clothing.

‘Have you seen Frevill?’ demanded Michael, ignoring their mortification. ‘The carpenter?’

‘Yes – he came to commission some shelf labels not long ago,’ replied Weasenham. His eyes narrowed when he saw the information was important. ‘Why?’

‘Did he say where he was going next?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

‘He did,’ said Weasenham, looking from monk, to physician and then to architect with a face full of open curiosity. ‘But I will not tell you unless you explain why you want to know.’

‘Then I shall answer,’ said Ruth, shooting her husband an admonishing look. ‘He said he was going for a nice ride in the Fens, as Master Walkelate had given him a free day.’

Walkelate smiled at Michael. ‘You see? Frevill is innocent of your horrible suspicions after all. He is just enjoying a little peace after the fever of finishing our work.’

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘No one rides into the Fens when the sun is about to set. He is almost certainly going to meet the raiders.’

‘Raiders?’ pounced Weasenham. ‘Frevill is one of them? I heard Coslaye had joined—’

‘You are mistaken, Doctor,’ cried Bonabes, horrified. ‘Frevill is a good man – kind and hard-working. He is not the sort of fellow to join assaults on the King’s taxes.’

‘I agree,’ said Ruth. Then she frowned. ‘Although he said one strange thing … He was talking to another customer in the shop, and I heard him say that the University was about to learn its lesson. I thought it was an odd remark, but perhaps with hindsight …’

‘He must have meant learn them in the library,’ explained Walkelate patiently. ‘It is a place of education, after all.’

‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘There was something in his voice that was rather more … more menacing.’

‘Damn Tulyet and his ruse!’ muttered Michael. ‘It has worked – the raiders have decided to attack the University now that they believe that the King’s taxes are no longer in the castle!’

‘But that would be impossible,’ said Walkelate
dismissively. ‘The University is a scattered entity, with no identifiable centre. And the greater part of it comprises poverty-stricken hostels.’

‘What about the library?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘That might be seen as a secure building in which to hide large chests of coins. It has thick walls and a sturdy door, after all.’

Walkelate shook his head. ‘You are panicking over nothing. There will be no raid.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Michael. ‘And I intend to warn every College, convent and hostel in our
studium generale
to be on their guard.’

It was dark when they left Weasenham’s shop, and even in the short time that they had been inside, the streets had emptied considerably. Bartholomew detected an uneasiness among those who were still out, and the town felt dangerous and uninviting.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded Michael, when he set off towards the Great Bridge. ‘We need to ensure that every scholar in the University knows what might happen tomorrow.’

‘To tell Dick Tulyet what Ruth just said about Frevill.’

‘Very well.’ Michael sketched a quick benediction, then began to hurry in the direction of St Mary the Great, calling over his shoulder, ‘But watch out for ambushers.’

Bartholomew kept to the shadows. It was an unsettling journey. He jumped every time there was an odd sound – and the night was full of them: whimpering dogs, the creak of the sign above the Griffin tavern, the squawk of a startled bird, a slithering sound made by a fox among some rubbish. He was relieved when he reached the castle, although as he approached it he felt he was being watched by dozens of hidden eyes. It was not a comfortable feeling.

‘You should not be wandering about alone,’ Tulyet admonished Bartholomew, who had stated his purpose to at least four guards before being allowed inside. The Sheriff wore full armour, and his broadsword was strapped to his waist. He appeared calm and confident, although Bartholomew detected the tension within him. ‘It is asking to be attacked again.’

‘Frevill the carpenter is one of the raiders,’ explained Bartholomew tersely. ‘And there is reason to believe that they will attack the University next. Your trick worked well, it seems.’

Tulyet winced. ‘Then Michael will have his hands full tomorrow. There will be trouble at the library ceremony anyway, and if the raiders attack while your scholars are skirmishing …’

‘Will you help him?’

‘I shall do what I can, but I must bear in mind that this intelligence may be a canard, to draw me out of the castle, thus leaving it vulnerable. And the King’s taxes are still in the Great Tower.’

Bartholomew’s stomach churned; he was sure that the beadles and academics would be all but powerless against the professional warriors who had so efficiently stormed the bailey.

‘Have you learned any more about the raiders?’ he asked.

Tulyet shook his head. ‘But they have picked a good time to invade. Normally, we could repel them by putting reinforcements on the town gates, but the dry weather of the last few days means that the river and the King’s Ditch are low – shallow enough to wade across without recourse to—’

He was interrupted by an echoing boom, and there was a flicker of red over the eastern wall. For a moment, nothing happened, then there was a curious whooshing
sound, and something plummeted into the bailey, flinging up a great spray of earth that made both him and Bartholomew dive for cover. Pebbles and soil pattered all around them. When it stopped, they scrambled to their feet to see a small lump of rock, half buried in the hole it had made.