Murder by the Book

Chapter 9

Breakfast that Tuesday was a dismal affair, and Bartholomew’s stomach churned with anxiety. He was appalled that Rougham had capitulated so easily, and was in an agony of worry over what Dame Pelagia might do with the information – not only that she might arrange for the attackers to die in order to prevent them from using the formula, but that she would pass what she had learned to the King, who might well order experiments of his own. And what of Rougham and Bartholomew himself? Would she take steps to ensure that they never revealed the secret again?

He was also concerned about Ayera, who had not appeared for church. A furtive glance into his colleague’s room showed that the bed had not been slept in, and Ayera’s students said they had not seen him since the previous night. Normally, Bartholomew would have reported his worries to Langelee, but the Master was also absent, and no one knew where he was, either.

Julitta troubled his thoughts, too, because she was about to bind herself to a man who was both a brash, conceited fortune-hunter and a coward, too – it had quickly become apparent that Holm had run straight home and barricaded himself in, making no effort to tell the soldiers and beadles he had passed en route that his colleagues were in danger.

‘Lord!’ breathed William, wiping pottage-spotted hands on his habit as they stood to leave the hall. Some of the lumps were large, and Bartholomew felt queasy when he saw them mashed into the already-filthy fabric. ‘That was an unpleasant repast. I shall have to visit my brethren at the priory for victuals again. Would you like to come, Matthew? They have eggs on Tuesdays.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I should see what my students–’

‘They are more than ready for their disputations,’ interrupted William. ‘There is no need to persecute them.’

‘Yes, let them be,’ added Michael, overhearing. ‘They will not disgrace you in the debating chamber, and I have need of you today, anyway.’

‘They speak the truth,’ said Thelnetham, the most academically gifted of the Fellows, and so someone whose opinion Bartholomew was willing to trust more than Michael, who just wanted his help, or William, who was not really qualified to say. ‘You have prepared them well.’

‘Set them some reading, and then we shall leave,’ ordered Michael.

Bartholomew’s anxieties were such that he hastened to comply, but Valence, who had accompanied him to see a patient before dawn that morning, waylaid him with a question.

‘You applied an ointment of elder leaves for that bruised hand earlier,’ the student said. ‘But Meryfeld’s apprentices told me that he uses a poultice of red lead.’

‘Then he will be angry with them – he likes to keep the contents of his concoctions to himself.’

Valence waved a dismissive hand. ‘There is nothing special about any of his potions – they are either the same as yours, or they contain inert elements that will neither harm nor benefit the taker. Except for the red lead that he adds to his remedy for contusions. It is because red lead is cold and dry in the second degree?’

Bartholomew did not want to denigrate his colleague by saying that Meryfeld probably had no idea what red lead would do, other than perhaps provide a particular colour or smell.

‘You must ask him,’ he replied. Then he relented; it was not a helpful answer, and Valence was trying to learn. ‘I performed a series of tests on rats once, and concluded that any benefits accruing from red lead are outweighed by its toxicity. So I never use it in any of my medicines.’

‘I see,’ said Valence. ‘How did you determine that it is toxic?’

‘Because the rats suffered convulsions. When I looked inside them, their digestive tracts were inflamed, their brains were swollen and their livers …’ Bartholomew trailed off, suddenly realising that admitting to conducting dissections, even on rodents, was unwise.

Valence smiled. ‘Your secret is safe with me, sir. And now I shall go to read to the others.’

Bartholomew climbed the stairs to Michael’s room, hoping Valence could be trusted, because he did not like to imagine what would be made of the fact that he chopped up dead animals with a view to assessing the impact of poisons. He would be expelled from the University for certain!

The monk had been briefing his own students. They were by far Michaelhouse’s most diligent pupils, quite happy to work alone, which was fortunate, because his duties as Senior Proctor often called him away. He sighed when they left to read the texts he had recommended.

‘I had a busy night,’ he said, flopping on to his bed in a way that made it creak ominously, and Bartholomew fear it might crash through the ceiling into his own room below. ‘After the attack on you, Tulyet ordered every soldier and available beadle out on patrol.’

‘But nothing happened?’ Bartholomew leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

‘The town was as quiet as a tomb – except for a fight between Essex Hostel and Bene’t.’

‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, again. In case you had not noticed, your wretched library is still causing considerable discord among our scholars – discord that is intensifying as its opening draws nearer. If only I had a Junior Proctor to help me keep the peace … But never mind this. I have reached some conclusions about the raiders. It is obvious now what is happening.’

‘It is?’

‘They have been sneaking into the town for weeks to reconnoitre. Adam and the others must have seen them, and they were murdered to prevent them from telling the Sheriff that trouble was afoot. And Saturday’s raid was the culmination of all their spying.’

‘But it was unsuccessful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They were driven off empty-handed.’

‘Quite, which means they will try again – they will not let all their efforts go unrewarded. My grandmother heard a rumour, one she believes, that says they will strike during the Corpus Christi pageant, when all our soldiers and beadles will be busy policing the crowds.’

‘Then cancel it.’

‘We cannot cancel Corpus Christi!’ exclaimed Michael, shocked. ‘It is one of the most important celebrations of the year – religious and secular.’

‘Then call off the launch of the library. That will free the beadles to–’

‘If we do, we will never have a benefaction from a townsman again, because Dunning’s disappointment will know no bounds. We shall just have to be vigilant.’

‘Vigilant for attacks by robbers who have already stormed the castle and killed experienced soldiers, and for mischief by the disaffected half of the University that does not want a Common Library?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘That should be easy enough!’

Michael shot him a nasty look. ‘If we solve these murders by the day after tomorrow, perhaps our rebellious scholars will stop saying that repositories for books are dangerous.’

‘I think it is time that we reviewed what we know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘To see if there are clues we have overlooked.’

Michael brightened. ‘Very well. We shall do it in the Brazen George, then, where a small repast might stimulate our minds into some constructive thinking.’

The streets were busy as Bartholomew and Michael walked to the High Street. Soldiers were everywhere, and Bartholomew could only suppose that Tulyet had drafted reinforcements from other towns. People continued their Corpus Christi preparations, but uneasily, much of the pleasure of the occasion stripped away by the fear of invasion.

‘I am going to close on Thursday,’ confided Landlord Lister, as he served them bread and a selection of cold meats. ‘I do not want to attract the attention of mercenaries by selling ale.’

‘They will not come if everyone is expecting them,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The element of surprise is an important factor in raids like these. And they have lost it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lister. ‘But the burgesses are taking no chances. Most of the wealthier ones have already left town, taking their families and valuables with them. Your sister and brother-in-law are among them, as a matter of fact, Doctor. They left this morning with their apprentices. Still, if these villains do attack, at least they will not get the taxes. Those are no longer in the castle.’

‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Are they dispatched to London, then?’

‘There is no need to be sly with me, Brother,’ said Lester, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Everyone knows the University has agreed to hide them for us.’

Michael stared at him. ‘That is untrue. We have done nothing of the kind!’

Lister winked knowingly. ‘Of course not.’

Michael rubbed his eyes when the landlord had gone. ‘This tale is false, but I doubt anyone will believe me. So you had better start analysing clues before I jump on a horse and follow your family to some peaceful village, because I am beginning to feel unpleasantly overwhelmed.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to begin, as they had scant evidence to analyse. He ate some bread, and tried to concentrate, but his mind kept straying back to what Rougham had done.

‘I did not think anyone else had remembered,’ he said unhappily. ‘The others recalled the pitch, brimstone and quicklime, but not the rock oil. How could Rougham have been so weak?’

‘Not everyone possesses your courage, Matt, especially when confronted by sword-wielding criminals. Incidentally, my grandmother knows a great deal about experiments to produce wildfire, but admitted that rock oil did not feature in any of the ones she is aware of.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, appalled. ‘If she intends to make some herself, she will be taking a serious risk. Rock oil needs to be distilled first, which is an extremely hazardous process. Then it must be dissolved in brimstone or resin, which is not easy, either.’

‘I will warn her,’ said Michael. ‘Although I cannot see her looming over a cauldron, preparing wicked substances to be used in battles.’ Bartholomew could, rather easily. ‘She thinks the men who attacked you are from the same band that has been spying …’

‘Probably. I noticed last night that the armour they wore was identical to that of the fellows who chased me along the river last week.’

‘You were a victim of your own predictability,’ chided Michael. ‘Everyone knows that the medici meet of an evening to meddle with lamp fuel, and that you walk home afterwards in the dark. All these villains had to do was wait until you happened by.’

Michael was right, and Bartholomew was disgusted with himself. He did not think he would ever sleep easy again, knowing that he bore at least some of the responsibility for the disaster.

‘Eight deaths,’ said Michael, after a while. ‘Four men in a library garden, Sawtre crushed by a bookcase, Rolee toppled from his library’s steps, Teversham strangled by a book chain, and Coslaye brained with a tome – twice. This cannot be coincidence, so tell me what it means.’

With an effort, Bartholomew dragged his thoughts away from wildfire. ‘Five of these victims supported the Common Library, two opposed it, and Rolee voted against it, but later decided to give it one of his books. It seems unlikely that they all died by the same hand.’

Michael frowned. ‘Northwood, Vale and the Londons were seen loitering in Cholles Lane before entering Newe Inn’s garden; Coslaye and the apprentice thought they heard a bell ringing; and we have reason to believe that they were trying to invent lamp fuel.’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think they were experimenting with wildfire? I liked Northwood, but he did allow his intellect to lead him – he might have overlooked the ethics of the situation for the thrill of solving a mystery. Meanwhile, Vale wanted to be rich, and the secret for such a weapon will be worth a great deal of money …’

‘And the London brothers seemed decent, but were quiet and private and no one knew them very well. It would certainly explain why my grandmother searched their home.’

They were both silent, thinking hard.

‘I am sure Newe Inn’s pond holds a clue,’ said Michael after a while. ‘There is definitely something sinister about it – it is unusually deep for a start.’ He sighed. ‘We shall need our wits about us if we are to crack this case, for I sense a very devious mind behind it.’

‘Ayera,’ said Bartholomew softly. He held up his hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know you had good reasons to dismiss what Gyseburne and Clippesby said about him being involved in the castle raid, but I tackled him about it anyway, and–’

‘You did what?’ Michael was shocked.

‘I asked why he was wearing armour under his tabard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And why he was limping. He had no convincing explanation for either. Moreover, he was to hand when Langelee was attacked, and he has taken to going out at peculiar hours.’

Michael was pale. ‘I hope to God you are wrong.’

‘So do I.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am anxious about Langelee, too. He has also been leaving Michaelhouse at odd times and was strangely defensive of Ayera.’

‘They are friends – of course he was defensive. And there will be a good reason for his disappearances. The College is in debt, so perhaps he is working to raise new funds.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘That is what worries me.’

Beadle Meadowman came with urgent documents for Michael to sign, and while he waited for the monk to finish, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse and took his new bestiary to Deynman. The Librarian was sitting in the corner of the hall, making an inventory of his books, although as he rarely let anyone, not even Fellows, remove them for personal study, it was hardly necessary.

‘I am never lending anything to anyone again,’ Deynman declared angrily. ‘No one knows how to treat books.’ He pointed accusingly at the volume Bartholomew held. ‘And to prove my point, look at that one. It is drenched in blood.’

‘Hardly drenched,’ said Bartholomew, handing it over. ‘Just a smear or two. If you do not want it for Michaelhouse, you can take it to Newe Inn.’

‘I do want it,’ said Deynman, clutching it possessively. ‘I shall clean it off and keep it safe.’

‘You do not know what it is yet,’ said Bartholomew, amused.

‘I do not care. It has pages and a cover, so it is a book. And books belong with me, because I am Librarian.’ Deynman pronounced the last word grandly, still delighted with the way it sounded. ‘No one is going to write “arse” in this little beauty.’

Bartholomew regarded him in bafflement. ‘Has someone–’

‘Yes, someone has!’ snapped Deynman. ‘In Apollodorus’s Poliorcetica.’

‘Do you know who?’

‘I do.’ Suddenly, Deynman’s indignation evaporated, and he reverted to the likeable but dim-witted lad Bartholomew knew and loved. ‘My remit is to care for these books, but when a senior member desecrates one, what am I supposed to do?’

‘A Fellow?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to think of who might have done such a thing.

‘Langelee,’ confided Deynman in an agonised whisper. ‘He asked to borrow it last week, and I let him, because he is the Master. But when it came back … look!’

He opened the offending tome, and there was the word scrawled in the margin, definitely in Langelee’s untidy hand. The fact that it was in the vernacular, not Latin or Greek, spoke volumes, too. Langelee’s grasp of classical languages was not the best.

‘Why did he want such a book?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He teaches philosophy, and he, unlike the rest of us, tends not to venture into other disciplines.’

‘He is not clever enough,’ said Deynman, blithely oblivious of the fact that he was in no position to criticise anyone’s intellect. ‘The rest of us like to hone our minds, but he would rather play camp-ball. He has never asked to borrow a book before, and I should have thought of an excuse not to let him have it.’

‘You cannot prevent the Master from using his own library.’

‘I can and I will,’ vowed Deynman. ‘I saw him reading it with Ayera later. Now he would never deface a book. He cares too deeply about them.’

Bartholomew was puzzled and worried. Langelee was not a man for academic chitchat, especially with someone who possessed an intellect as formidable as Ayera’s, so what had they really been doing? He patted the Librarian’s shoulder, and bent to read what had prompted Langelee to do such a terrible thing. It was the chapter on devices that could be used to attack a castle. A wash of cold dread flooded over him as he scanned descriptions of siege engines, weapons for undermining rocks, and recipes for making things that exploded.

‘Langelee borrowed this last week?’ he asked.

Deynman nodded. ‘Yes, why? What is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost.’

Bartholomew gripped Deynman’s arm urgently. ‘Forget about this. Do not mention it to the Master or to anyone else.’

‘Why?’ pressed Deynman. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Neither do I,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I do know we need to be careful.’

When Bartholomew found Michael, the monk was just finishing a discussion with Clippesby. The Dominican was agitated, and shot towards the stables when Bartholomew approached, muttering something about needing a sensible conversation with a horse to calm his nerves. Michael’s expression was one of exasperation and bemusement in equal measure.

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘That the rat declines to visit libraries any more, because they are too dangerous; the Carmelite Friary’s blackbirds have a low opinion of Riborowe; and the College cat reports that Langelee and Ayera have taken to going out at strange times, sometimes together but usually alone.’

Bartholomew watched Clippesby disappear into the stable, and wondered what to do about the cat’s intelligence in particular.

‘There will be a grain of truth in it all,’ sighed Michael. ‘There usually is, although it is difficult to extract fact from fiction where he is concerned. The man is a lunatic, and I often wonder why we do not dismiss him and appoint someone sane.’

‘Because he is gentle and good, and that is worth a great deal.’

‘I suppose so. But I can tell from the expression on your face that something else is wrong now. Did Deynman refuse you access to some text?’

‘Ayera and Langelee have been reading up on warfare. And things that explode.’

Michael swallowed hard. ‘What you said earlier has jogged my memory – I noticed Ayera’s limp, too. Could he have been one of the trio my grandmother drove away from you on Wednesday? She told me later that she thought she had injured two of them enough to slow them down.’

‘She hit one in the foot and the other in the thigh. Coslaye had a damaged foot …’

‘And Ayera walked as though his injury was higher up. Yet I cannot see him joining forces with the likes of the Principal of Batayl. But having said that, Ayera has always been something of an enigma. I hope to God he has not led Langelee astray.’

‘No one “leads” the Master anywhere he does not want to go.’

Michael was sombre. ‘True. And we must not forget that he was the chief henchman for a powerful churchman with a lot of enemies. He must have been very good at it – those sorts of occupations tend to have a short life expectancy, and he did it for years.’

‘Not as long as your grandmother, though,’ remarked Bartholomew.

‘She is a remarkable woman, is she not?’ said Michael fondly. ‘There cannot be many elderly ladies who played a role at the Battle of Poitiers.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. The victory had been attributed to the skill of English and Welsh archers, the lie of the land, and the reckless over-confidence of the French commanders, but now he wondered whether the Prince of Wales had had a secret weapon – not ribauldequins or wildfire, but Dame Pelagia. He frowned. ‘Weapons and warfare.’

‘What about them?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Langelee and Ayera have been reading about them; Northwood and the others may have been experimenting with them; Riborowe and Coslaye drew them; Chancellor Tynkell professes to know about them; while any number of scholars were at Poitiers – Northwood, Holm, Walkelate and Riborowe …’

‘And Pepin of Batayl says he was not there, although you caught him out in inconsistencies about the area. Moreover, he is a Frenchman in a hostel that is named for the English victory, which must be uncomfortable to say the least.’

‘I am sure this is important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I have no idea why.’

‘Then we had better find you some answers.’

They decided to speak to Riborowe first, and arrived at the Carmelite Priory to find the friars spring-cleaning ready for Corpus Christi. Their bedding had been put to air, and clerics and lay-brothers alike were busy with mops and brushes. Etone was in the scriptorium.

‘Out, out!’ he was crying, driving his querulous scribes before him like a flock of geese. ‘It reeks in here, and the floor is in desperate need of a scrub.’

‘But we cannot afford the time, Father Prior,’ objected Riborowe, clasping his skeletal hands in dismay. ‘Dunning wants this Book of Hours by Thursday, because he is going present it to the Common Library. At its opening.’

‘It will not be ready then, will it,’ said Etone sweetly. ‘What a pity!’

‘He will take his custom to Ely,’ warned Jorz, hopping from foot to foot in distress.

‘So what?’ demanded Etone. ‘What can he do to us now? Decline to give us Newe Inn? He is an untrustworthy man, and I would sooner not treat with him again anyway.’

‘We have company,’ said Riborowe, whipping around suddenly when he sensed they were being observed. ‘What do you want, Bartholomew? To inspect Jorz’s pictures, and tell him whether his portrayal of Satan is accurate?’

‘Stop!’ ordered Etone sharply. ‘What have I told you about being rude to Matthew?’

‘That he may refuse to tend your chilblains if I insult him,’ replied Riborowe sullenly. He glowered at Bartholomew, and ignored his Prior’s pained wince at the lack of tact.

‘How can we help you, Matthew?’ asked Etone with an ingratiating smile that did not sit well on his naturally austere features.

‘For a start, you can tell us whether Coslaye visited you early on Saturday morning,’ replied Michael. ‘To accuse you of spoiling his mural with soot.’

‘Yes, he did,’ replied Etone uncomfortably. ‘And I have disciplined the novice responsible. However, I can see the lad’s point. Coslaye’s painting is a glorification of war, and while I am as patriotic as the next man, I do not condone slaughter.’

‘What time did Coslaye arrive?’

‘Just before nocturns. I remember, because his ranting distressed us, and we found it difficult to concentrate on our prayers afterwards.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. So Coslaye had no alibi for the raid after all, because nocturns was in the middle of the night, a long time before dawn.

‘How long was he here?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘A few moments,’ replied Etone. ‘He howled at me, I howled back, then he stormed out.’

‘I do not suppose you noticed whether he was limping, did you?’

Etone frowned. ‘It is odd that you should ask, because I saw him hobbling quite painfully, but that was much later in the day. I did not observe any obvious limp when we raged at each other over his horrible painting.’

‘Did he explain what had happened to him?’

‘He said a book had fallen on his foot. I quipped that perhaps a Common Library was not such a bad idea after all, because it would save the heads of impecunious hostels from being injured by tomes stored on cheap shelving. He did not find my remark amusing.’

‘We also need to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, intending to ask whether Ayera had spoken to the scribe during the raid, as Clippesby had claimed; and if so, what about.

Riborowe scowled. ‘Tulyet still has him. How are we expected to manage when we have no one to draw chickens? What are my ribauldequins supposed to shoot at?’

‘Or my demons to eat?’ added Jorz.

‘Ribauldequins,’ mused Michael. ‘How familiar are you with those, Riborowe?’

The thin friar was delighted to be asked. ‘I have never seen one in action, because I was too far away at Poitiers, but I have read a good deal about them and …’

He trailed off when he saw his Prior regarding him coldly, disapproving of his obvious pleasure in devices designed to take human life. He flushed, and slunk away to the chamber at the rear, where he stirred something red that was bubbling in a pot.

‘I shall speak to him later,’ said Etone, watching Riborowe with troubled eyes. ‘It is time this unseemly fascination with artillery ended.’

He returned to the business of driving the reluctant scriveners from their desks in his quest for a dust-free environment, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to make their own way out.

‘Coslaye would have had plenty of time after this altercation to join the attack on the castle,’ said Bartholomew, as they walked across the yard. ‘So perhaps Robin did see him, and he injured his foot in the fracas. Etone’s testimony certainly points that way.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘I sincerely hope they are wrong!’

Outside the friary, the roads were quieter than they had been, and several families had given up decorating their homes, leaving them oddly lopsided. Michael and Bartholomew had reached the High Street when they saw Tulyet arguing with the head of the Frevill clan. The debate was cut short when Frevill stalked into his house and slammed the door.

‘I was trying to persuade him to cancel the pageant,’ explained Tulyet. ‘He refuses, although he has spirited his family and valuables to the country. Hypocrite! What about those who do not have a refuge, and who may lose everything if the raiders strike during his damned festivities?’

‘I thought he was to lead the procession,’ said Michael. ‘If he flees the town, then–’

‘Oh, he will lead it,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘It will take more than the prospect of a raid to deprive him of an opportunity to flaunt his finery. He will enjoy himself, safe in the knowledge that all he holds dear is beyond the raiders’ reach, and that a fast horse will be waiting to whisk him away at the first sign of trouble.’

‘Then perhaps you should not have arranged for his cope to be repaired,’ said Michael. ‘He might have been less eager to strut if his ceremonial regalia was full of lye-holes.’

‘I wish I had let it dissolve,’ said Tulyet viciously. ‘His actions are the worst combination imaginable. Either he should have cancelled the pageant and left the town to organise a proper defence, or he should have proved that there is nothing to worry about by keeping his family and jewels here. As matters stand, folk are confused and frightened by his example.’

‘The rumours of an attack do seem to be growing stronger,’ said Michael. ‘Several Colleges and a number of hostels have declared an end to their programmes of beautification, on the grounds that we shall all be in flames soon anyway. And my grandmother is afraid they may be right.’

Tulyet sighed tiredly. ‘I shall ask the other burgesses to cancel the festivities, but I doubt they will oppose Frevill: the Guild of Corpus Christi is powerful, and money has been invested in the arrangements. Dunning would be furious, too – he wants the whole town to witness his largesse in funding your Common Library.’

‘Can you not order them to do it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not on the basis of rumours. Still, at least I know who murdered Adam, the beggar and my guard. It was definitely the robbers. I have witnesses now, along with a distinctive piece of armour that was gripped in my soldier’s dead hand.’

‘When did they claim their first victim?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In other words, how long have they been spying on the town?’

‘The beggar was murdered on Easter Day – more than two months ago.’

‘Holm arrived here to live on Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Ignore him,’ said Michael, when Tulyet’s eyebrows rose. ‘He has taken a dislike to Holm.’

‘He is not the only one,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘Holm was useless when my men were injured. Incidentally, were you aware that he keeps a lover? Clippesby knows, so I imagine he told you. He stumbled across them when he was debating some lofty theological tract with a goat. Or was it a pig? I cannot recall now.’

‘Did Clippesby give you a name?’ asked Michael. ‘Prudishly, Matt stopped him from revealing it when they discussed the matter, and I keep forgetting to ask.’

‘Browne of Batayl Hostel.’

‘Browne?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I was not expecting that! Still, I suppose it explains why Holm seems immune to Julitta’s very considerable beauty, and why Clippesby is so certain their union will be unhappy. You will have to prevent her from marrying him now, Matt. Make her fall in love with you instead. It would be a kindness.’

‘How will you catch the individual who killed Adam, Dick?’ Bartholomew asked, before the monk could embarrass him further.

‘I have every available soldier out scouring the Fens. Unfortunately, these raiders are elusive and extremely well organised, and I am not hopeful of nabbing them before they next attack.’

‘Speaking of their next attack, there is a tale that the tax money has been moved from the castle and hidden in the University,’ said Michael. ‘Do you have any idea who invented such a lie?’

‘No, but the story is all over the town. There is gossip about Gyseburne, too – namely that his interest in urine stems from the fact that it can be made to explode. Is it true?’

‘Urine does contain combustible–’ began Bartholomew, but then stopped abruptly.

‘He is still horrified by Rougham’s capitulation,’ explained Michael to the Sheriff. ‘And he is loath to discuss substances that blow up with anyone now. Even you.’

‘Good,’ said Tulyet sourly. ‘It was a secret that should have been carried to the grave, and he had no right dabbling in such matters in the first place. If that vile concoction is ever used against my men, I shall … well, let us hope it does not happen.’

‘Christ!’ groaned Bartholomew when Tulyet had gone. ‘What if it is? What if the raiders manage to create some?’

‘They cannot, not when you say rock oil is difficult to obtain and dangerous to distil. But perhaps we are taking too bleak a view of the situation. There may be no raid – the robbers may have given up after their rout on Saturday.’

‘That is not what everyone else seems to think,’ said Bartholomew, aware that several High Street houses had boards over their windows. ‘Including your grandmother.’

‘But they may be wrong. There is nothing except rumour to suggest there will be an attack. I am sure this tale did not come from the culprits, and they are the only ones who really know.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, although he was far from convinced.

The interview with Willelmus was delayed yet again when Michael was intercepted by a beadle saying that Walkelate needed some requisitions to be signed as a matter of urgency. Bartholomew went with him to Newe Inn, still worrying that wildfire might play a role in the looming trouble.

The clouds had lifted and it was hot by the time they reached Cholles Lane. The streets were clogged with dust, and Bartholomew wished it would rain, to dampen it down. People were already complaining about the heat, worried that the crops might fail again. The town’s children were happy, though, and frolicked in the river’s shallows, squealing their delight amid fountains of brown spray. Bartholomew hoped it would not make them ill, because they had chosen to play not far from where the Carmelites discharged their sewage.

Bartholomew and Michael entered Newe Inn, where they met Dunning in the basement, just leaving. He was whistling cheerfully to himself, and smiled when he saw Michael.

‘You are prompt,’ he said approvingly. ‘Walkelate has the documents ready, and I appreciate you coming so quickly. Time is of the essence now that Corpus Christi is only two days away.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael gloomily.

Then Dunning’s face darkened. ‘I wish I did not have to waste so much of it quashing these ridiculous tales about a raid, though. Of course there will not be an attack! These villains are still Christians, and know better than to risk the wrath of God by interrupting religious ceremonies.’

‘Opening a library is hardly a religious–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Nonsense!’ interrupted Dunning. ‘Prayers will be said, will they not? And monks and friars will be in attendance? I want it to be a day to remember – and I do not mean because everyone skulks at home, too frightened to come out and admire what we have achieved here.’

He bustled away before they could argue, leaving them to climb the stairs to the upper rooms. When they arrived, they could not help but notice that the reek of oil was just as powerful as it had been the last time they had visited, and Holm’s ‘remedy’ sat ineffectually in a bowl on the windowsill. Aristotle, now affixed in his permanent position atop the first bookshelf, seemed to be grimacing his disapproval at the stench.

Walkelate and Frevill were at the cista, anxiously studying the plans that were spread across it, but the architect’s face broke into a smile when he saw Michael and Bartholomew.

‘We are almost ready,’ he said, eyes dancing with delight as he handed the monk the documents that needed his approval. ‘There is no question at all now that we will make the Corpus Christi deadline. We shall present the University a building that every scholar can be proud of.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, looking around appreciatively. ‘But where is Kente? Have the fumes made him ill again?’

‘He has not arrived yet. He must be mixing more wood-grease in his workshop at home. He likes to employ it liberally, which is why there is something of an aroma.’

‘Or perhaps he is with the libri concatenati,’ suggested Michael.

‘No, that room has been locked up since yesterday.’ The eager gleam was back in Walkelate’s eyes. ‘Would you like to see it? It is completely finished, and–’

‘No,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could say he would.

‘We have been discussing that nasty attack on Langelee,’ said Frevill, both hands to the small of his back. ‘But we have come up with nothing useful. We were not here when it happened, more is the pity – he may have been assaulted by the same villain who did away with Northwood and the others, and it would have been good to catch the rogue.’

‘It would,’ agreed Walkelate fervently. ‘Unpleasant incidents on the eve of our opening are not good news. Are you sure you two would not like to see the finished chamber?’

‘I would,’ said Bartholomew, before Michael could decline a second time.

Michael heaved an impatient sigh as, with a happy grin, Walkelate took a key from a chain around his neck. He inserted it in the door, but it did not turn, and he frowned his puzzlement.

‘It is unlocked,’ he said, rattling it impatiently. ‘Yet it will not open. What is wrong?’

Bartholomew pointed to a small wedge at the bottom of the door. He kicked it out of the way, and the door opened easily.

‘We must have forgotten to secure it last night,’ said Frevill anxiously. ‘That is not good! I would not like one of our enemies to get in and damage something.’

‘You believe someone would be so petty?’ asked Bartholomew, yet as soon as the question was out, he knew it was a foolish one. He could name at least a dozen scholars who would think nothing of despoiling the place. Walkelate could, too, and began to do so.

‘Some of the Carmelites, Browne and that Batayl rabble, the Master and Fellows of Bene’t College, the Fellows of King’s Hall, Doctor Rougham of Gonville–’

‘Quite a lot, then,’ interrupted Bartholomew, suspecting the list was likely to continue for some time. He stepped into the room and looked around in awe. ‘It is splendid! I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather read.’

‘That is the best compliment you could have paid us,’ said Walkelate sincerely.

‘Master Walkelate designed this place to last,’ said Frevill, resting a callused hand on one of the shelves. ‘It is strange to think that scholars will be sitting here in a hundred years’ time.’

‘A thousand years,’ corrected Walkelate. ‘Our names will be read out at Corpus Christi masses long after our souls have been released from Purgatory.’

He and Michael went back to their documents, leaving Bartholomew to explore alone. The physician walked slowly, running his fingers along the polished wood as he admired the intricacy of the carvings. He smirked when he saw a dragon with Etone’s dour features, while Adam and Eve bore an uncanny likeness to Bonabes and Ruth. The only negative was the powerful aroma of oil and the somewhat earthy scent of the bale of hay that had been set in the middle of the room.

He was just walking past it, eyes fixed on the handsome sconces on the wall, when he tripped over something that had been left in the way. It was Kente, face-down on the floor. Quickly, he rested a hand on the carpenter’s neck, but Kente was cold and had clearly been dead for hours. Bartholomew could only suppose that he had lain there all night.

‘Brother!’ he called urgently. ‘It seems libraries really are dangerous places.’

Walkelate was distraught when he saw his artisan. He dropped to his knees, and began imploring Kente to sit up and announce that it was all a terrible joke. Bartholomew needed Frevill’s help to pull him away and seat him at the cista in the adjoining room with his back to the corpse. Michael fetched him a cup of wine, and urged him to sip.

‘How did it happen?’ demanded Walkelate, after several gulps had given him back some of his colour. ‘He was perfectly well when we parted last night. He said he just wanted to check that all was well before going home, and I left him to lock the door.’

‘What time was this?’ asked Michael.

‘Dusk,’ replied Walkelate shakily. ‘He was nearing the end of his endurance, so I suppose our gruelling schedule must have given him a seizure. He is not as strong as the rest of us.’

‘Or do you think he was murdered by one of the many scholars who hates what we have done here?’ asked Frevill with a scowl. ‘If so, it will not stop us from finishing. Indeed, I shall do all in my power to ensure it does open as planned, because the bonus Dunning promised … well, Kente’s family will need it now he has gone.’

‘Will you inspect him for us, Matthew?’ asked Walkelate brokenly. ‘His wife and children will want to know how he died.’

Bartholomew went to oblige, Michael at his heels. Walkelate began to weep, and Frevill tried to comfort him, gruff and awkward. The other workmen gathered around them, all shocked.

Bartholomew stared at the body, sensing something amiss. He knelt next to it, stretched out his hand, then jerked it away as something moved under Kente’s tunic. He leapt backwards when the sinuous body of a snake appeared.

It was the biggest viper he had ever seen, as long as his arm and unsettlingly thick. Michael shrieked his horror, and shot out of the room, displaying remarkable speed for someone so large. He slammed closed the door, then opened it a crack.

‘Matt, come out!’ he whispered, as if he imagined that the snake might hear and try to stop him. ‘Quickly.’

‘It must have been in the hay,’ said Bartholomew, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose it crawled out, and bit Kente when he inadvertently trod on it.’

‘Then come over here,’ hissed Michael urgently. ‘Before it bites you, too.’

When the monk turned to explain what was happening to the craftsmen, Bartholomew took Kente’s shoulders and moved him carefully. The adder slithered further into the carpenter’s clothes; it was cold, and wanted somewhere warm to hide.

There were two wounds in Kente’s ankle, ringed faintly with blood, and his leg was swollen and purple to the knee. His gums were inflamed, too – another symptom of snake poisoning. Bartholomew glanced at the door, recalling the wedge that had been jammed in it, but then saw that the floor of the adjoining chamber was littered with identical fragments.

‘Enough,’ shouted Michael, when he saw his friend still pondering over Kente’s body. ‘Come out immediately. That is an order!’

‘There is no danger, Brother. Snakes only attack when they are threatened.’

‘I doubt Kente would agree. And you are not Clippesby, who enjoys a peculiar rapport with wild beasts. Walk towards me now, before it is too late.’

Ignoring him, Bartholomew upended his medical bag, then took his forceps and gently placed them around the snake’s head. It did not struggle, so it was not difficult to pick it up and drop it into an empty sack. Michael screeched his horror at every stage, but Bartholomew ignored him. He closed the bag carefully and carried it towards the door.

‘Put it down,’ ordered Michael. ‘I shall stamp on it.’

‘I am going to release it in the garden.’

‘No, you are not!’ declared Michael, appalled. ‘Meadowman is there, dredging.’

‘Fling it over the wall towards Batayl,’ suggested Frevill, quite seriously.

‘Or even better, put it in the Carmelite Friary,’ added one of his workmates.

Bartholomew paid no attention to any of them. It was not far to the river, where there was plenty of long grass. When he arrived, he looked carefully both ways. Torvin the riverman was approaching from one direction, and Jorz from the other. Neither was close enough to be a problem. He opened the bag and watched the snake slither out.

‘I saw that,’ said Jorz, eyes wide as he backed away and crossed himself. ‘I saw you release your familiar – the Devil in serpent form.’

He dashed away before Bartholomew could respond to the charge. The physician sighed, realising he should have waited until Jorz had gone.

‘Ignore him.’ Bartholomew jumped; he had forgotten Torvin was there. ‘You were right to let it go. They are peaceful creatures, and want only to be left alone. Just like us riverfolk, in fact.’

By the time Bartholomew returned to Newe Inn, Michael had summoned beadles to carry Kente’s body to the nearest church. The physician was obliged to remove some of the artisan’s clothes first, though, to show the nervous pall-bearers that there were no more vipers hidden within. Meanwhile, the hay was wrapped in sacking, and Walkelate gave the order for it to be burned in the garden. Walkelate, Frevill and their colleagues watched the blaze for a while, but soon sought comfort in the familiarity of their work.

‘So what happened?’ asked Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone. ‘I have known others bitten by snakes, and although they were ill afterwards, none died.’

‘Kente was suffering from exhaustion,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Had he been fit and sought immediate help, the bite might not have been fatal.’

Michael shuddered. ‘So what stopped him from summoning assistance? The door was unlocked, and that piece of wood was not wedged in especially tightly. I saw it.’

‘It was easy to dislodge from this side, but it would have been much harder from the other. However, one of the windows was ajar. I suspect he did call for help, but no one heard.’

‘An accident, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Yet another one connected to books?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Meaning you are not sure?’

‘The snake may have emerged from the bale to bite Kente when he inadvertently stepped on it, but it may equally well have been placed there deliberately. There is no way to know. Similarly, there is no way to know whether the wood blocked the door by chance, or whether someone put it there.’

Michael regarded him uneasily, then led the way away from the smouldering hay, along the overgrown path that led to the pond. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘Anyone who wants to see the Common Library fail, I suppose. Or wants to fuel the rumour that repositories for books are perilous places.’

As if to prove his words, Bartholomew overheard Cynric saying this to Meadowman when they approached the pool. The beadle was nodding sagely, agreeing with every word.

‘Meadowman,’ called Michael curtly. ‘Have you finished dredging yet?’

‘Yes, but it was a waste of time, Brother. The pool is extraordinarily deep, as you know – deeper than the height of three men. I did my best, but there was nothing to find.’

‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘You mean it was empty of everything except fish?’

‘I put those back,’ said Meadowman. ‘I wanted to take one home for supper, but Cynric said that Satan might join me at the dinner table if I did, because they belong to him.’

‘They made the riverfolk sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the Batayl scholars.’

‘I told you,’ said Cynric, gratified. ‘There are evil faeries in that water, and they harm anyone who steals their produce.’ He crossed himself, and muttered an incantation to some heathen god.

‘I pulled out plenty of rubbish, of course,’ Meadowman went on. ‘But nothing that will help you understand what happened to the scholars who died here.’

Michael sighed. ‘We had better inspect what you have recovered anyway.’

The beadle pointed to a substantial mound of refuse, reeking and stained with brown mud; flies swarmed hungrily. There were rusted knives, broken pots, half-rotted baskets, countless oyster shells, what appeared to be part of a wooden chest, an ancient helmet, and a large number of animal bones. Michael regarded it all in distaste.

‘So what did that fellow expect to find when we almost laid hold of him here the other night?’

Meadowman shrugged. ‘Treasure? People hid their riches in all sorts of funny places during the Death, and I kept hoping we would discover a hoard.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘The Dunning family has rented Newe Inn to impecunious taverners for years. None had fortunes to conceal.’

‘Personally, I suspect those four scholars were trying to harness the power of demons,’ began Cynric. ‘And–’

‘No,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, wondering whether his own reputation as a warlock owed anything to his association with Cynric. He pointed. ‘When did you haul that large metal pot out?’

‘The witches’ cauldron?’ asked Cynric brightly. ‘Would you like it for your experiments? I can take it back to Michaelhouse and clean it off for you. I am sure it will scrub up beautifully.’

‘I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew quickly, aware of Meadowman’s knowing smirk. ‘But did you find it relatively quickly or later on? In other words, was it near the top of the items you uncovered, or buried deep?’

‘It was almost the first thing I hauled up,’ said Meadowman. ‘Why?’

Bartholomew tapped it with his forceps. It rang melodiously.

‘So Coslaye and the apprentice were right when they said they heard bells,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Can we assume that Northwood and his friends were doing something with this cauldron when they died, then, and it went in the pond at or near the same time that they did?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘We have suspected all along that they were conducting alchemical experiments. Moreover, here are jars that almost certainly contained pitch and brimstone – two ingredients used to make lamp fuel.’ Or wildfire, he thought, but did not say. ‘But why here?’

‘That is easy to answer,’ replied Cynric. ‘Because the London brothers lived next door to Weasenham, the town’s biggest gossip; Vale lived in Gonville Hall, but they could not work there, because Rougham would have demanded an explanation–’

‘And Northwood would face similar problems at King’s Hall,’ finished Bartholomew. He glanced around him. ‘Yet it would be easy to work here undisturbed. Of course, it does not explain how they died.’

‘Perhaps they accidentally set themselves alight,’ suggested Meadowman. ‘And flung themselves in the pond to extinguish the flames.’

‘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.’