Murder by the Book

Chapter 10

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?’

Michael laughed. ‘They are not secrets! Besides, there is nothing to say Browne is dead. Or that Holm killed him. And anyway, if I had to choose a suspect, it would be Pepin.’

‘Pepin might have murdered Coslaye, but he has no reason to harm Browne. Browne shared his distaste for Coslaye’s fascination with Poitiers.’

‘And what if Pepin did kill Coslaye, and Browne found out?’ asked Michael. ‘That is a motive for murder. Moreover, Pepin’s determination to have Holm implicated in Browne’s disappearance is suspicious. Then there is the fact that I tripped him up with my question about Angoulême, which does produce paper, and has done for years; my grandmother waxed lyrical about it the other night. If he does not know this simple fact, then he is lying about his origins.’

‘I suspect that is because he actually hails from Poitiers,’ said Bartholomew. He shrugged when the monk regarded him in surprise. ‘I might lie, too, were I a Poitevin living in England, and I imagine he did turn out for the battle. He looks more like a warrior than a scholar.’

‘He does,’ agreed Michael. ‘But how do you know he comes from Poitiers?’

‘Because of the name he gave the stew that made everyone ill: tout marron. It is called tout brun everywhere but Poitiers. I cannot imagine why he did not abandon Batayl and enrol with a Principal who is less rabidly anti-French.’

‘That is easier said than done,’ explained Michael. ‘Students pay fees, and no hostel wants to lose those, so moving between foundations is strongly discouraged. Of course, Pepin is not the only candidate for dispatching Browne. Julitta has a powerful reason to dislike the fellow, too: no wife wants a manly lover waiting in the wings.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. ‘That is a terrible thing to say!’

‘And people do terrible things, as we have learned in the past. Especially, it would seem, ones with angelic faces and kindly dispositions.’

‘But Julitta is–’

‘Julitta is about to marry a man she adores, but she is no fool, and may well know about his preferences. Browne’s demise can only benefit her, and if your befuddled emotions would let you view the situation objectively, you would agree with me.’

‘Killing Browne will not resolve anything – Holm will still be attracted to men. She is not stupid, Brother; she will understand that.’

Michael regarded him critically. ‘It seems to me that love blinds even the sanest of people to reason.’

‘I do not love her,’ Bartholomew snapped. ‘There is still Matilde …’

‘Is there? When was the last time you thought about her?’

Bartholomew was chagrined to feel colour rise into his cheeks. ‘I have not had time to think of anything except my teaching and your investigation for days,’ he replied stiffly.

Prudently, Michael changed the subject to their students’ upcoming disputations, for which Bartholomew was grateful. He did not want anyone to know the full extent of the affection he was beginning to feel for a woman who was shortly to become another man’s wife.

Tulyet’s hopeful smile quickly faded when he heard that Bartholomew and Michael had not come to the castle because they had something useful to report about the raiders.

‘Only more of the same,’ said Michael apologetically. ‘That they will come at Corpus Christi.’

‘I called a meeting in the Guild Hall earlier,’ said Tulyet gloomily. ‘To urge the burgesses to cancel the pageant. But a lot of money has been invested in it, so they voted to ignore me.’

‘Money for what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘For the cakes that have been baked, the ale that has been brewed, the performers who have been hired. Calling it off now will mean heavy financial losses. But perhaps my fears are unfounded. The raiders may not come when they learn the taxes are no longer in the Great Tower, and so will not be easy to find.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, there is a tale that they are now hidden in the University. The castle may be safe, but we must expect to be ravaged.’

‘You will not be,’ said Tulyet confidently. ‘Not even the most determined thief could consider searching eight Colleges, forty hostels and half a dozen convents.’

Bartholomew gazed at him horror as understanding dawned. ‘It was you! You started this rumour, to dissuade the robbers from coming!’

‘Steady on, Matt!’ breathed Michael, shocked. ‘That is a nasty accusation.’

But Tulyet’s expression was sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned something to Weasenham …’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You did what?’

‘Who seized your idle musings and turned them into rumour,’ finished Bartholomew.

Michael continued to gape. ‘No, Dick! I cannot believe you would do something so recklessly irresponsible!’

‘What is irresponsible about using all the means at my disposal to avert trouble?’ asked Tulyet defensively, although he would not meet Michael’s eyes.

‘Well, for a start, there is the very strong possibility that your ruse will work, and that the University will bear the brunt of these marauders’ attentions,’ snapped Michael, anger taking the place of disbelief. ‘How could you? It is not–’

‘Is the money still here, in the castle?’ asked Bartholomew, speaking quickly to prevent a spat. Having the Sheriff and Senior Proctor at loggerheads would be disastrous at such a time.

‘Locked in the Great Tower.’ Then Tulyet’s defiant glare faded. ‘But with hindsight, I see that I should not have acted without consulting you, Brother. I am sorry.’

‘We came to speak to Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew, seeing Michael gird himself up to reject the apology. But while Tulyet was certainly in the wrong, nothing would be gained from remonstrating with him further. ‘Is he here?’

‘May I ask why?’ asked Tulyet.

‘Just an avenue of enquiry,’ replied Michael coldly. ‘If it leads anywhere, you will be the first to know. I shall not exclude you from anything important.’

Tulyet inclined his head rather stiffly, and pointed to the Great Tower. Michael fumed as he and Bartholomew crossed the bailey towards it.

‘How dare he put us at risk! What was he thinking?’

‘That it was a way to avert trouble,’ said Bartholomew calmly. ‘Do not quarrel–’

‘I understand the importance of good relations in a time of crisis, even if he does not,’ hissed Michael. ‘But what he has done is unforgivable. How can I ever trust him again?’

‘He has barely slept since the attack, and the deaths of his men hit him very hard. He made an error of judgement, which he had the grace to acknowledge. I doubt it will happen again.’

Michael scowled. ‘It had better not!’

Willelmus was working on a document when Bartholomew and Michael arrived, leaning close to the text as he strained to see. He glanced up when the visitors were shown in, his milky eyes squinting in an effort to identify them. Still angry with the Sheriff and eager to vent his spleen, Michael homed in on him like a hawk after a rabbit.

‘You were seen talking to one of the raiders during the attack,’ he began curtly. ‘Why?’

‘He approached me,’ replied Willelmus, alarmed by the monk’s belligerence. ‘And I was so frightened that it caused a seizure. Surgeon Holm and Doctor Rougham say I am lucky to survive.’

‘You seem well enough now,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it took rather longer to recover from genuine seizures. Holm and Rougham had exaggerated its seriousness to their patient, probably so they could charge a higher fee for their services.

‘I am mending,’ acknowledged Willelmus. ‘But I am not as fit as I was before it happened.’

‘What did you discuss with this terrifying individual?’ demanded Michael.

‘He asked where the tax money was kept,’ gulped Willelmus. ‘I am afraid I told him, because I feared he would kill me otherwise.’

‘That makes no sense.’ Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Every other witness says the robbers aimed straight for the Great Tower – they already knew where to go. So why did this one man stop to question you, especially once the raid was under way?’

‘I cannot be expected to know what is in the minds of criminals,’ said Willelmus, swallowing hard. ‘They probably think differently from normal men. All I can say is that he must have picked on me because I do not look brave and I was unarmed. He thought I would crack easily.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar intently. ‘You are lying. Our witnesses implied it was more conversation than interrogation, which suggests to me that you had spoken before. Do you not think it is time to tell us what is going on, so we can prevent another attack?’

‘No!’ squeaked Willelmus. ‘Your witnesses are wrong! I never–’

‘Tell us the truth,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or you will never see your scriptorium again.’

Willelmus was close to tears. ‘All right! I did know him, but they will kill me if I talk. They said so, and I have no reason to doubt them. They will crush me like a snail.’

‘You talked to Ayera,’ said Michael harshly. ‘From Michaelhouse.’

Willelmus closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied in a whisper.

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at the easy capitulation. ‘No! Ayera is not the one you really fear. Who else threatened you?’

But Willelmus was silent, rocking back and forth in distress. Fortunately, small threads of evidence began to come together in Bartholomew’s mind.

‘It has been suggested that the invaders aimed straight for the Great Tower because they are local, so they know where the Sheriff stores his valuables. But they have been reconnoitring the town for weeks, killing anyone who sees them. However, perhaps they let some folk live in exchange for information.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, his eyes steely. ‘They knew to assault the Great Tower not because they had a local’s knowledge, or because it was an obvious conclusion to draw, but because someone told them all they needed to know.’

Willelmus’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘What will happen to me?’ he breathed.

‘That is for the Sheriff to decide,’ said Michael harshly. ‘However, I imagine it will involve a spell in his gaol, next to the villain he has already caught.’

‘That man will kill me, too,’ said Willelmus miserably. ‘I have been doomed from the start.’

He tried to dart away, but it was not difficult for Bartholomew to intercept him. Moreover, his pathetic attempt at flight revealed a significant limp.

‘Was this miserable specimen one of those who attacked you the other night, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were more of a warrior than that.’

‘I have not attacked anyone in years,’ sobbed Willelmus pitifully. ‘Not after …’

‘Not after the disaster that occurred when you tackled someone else,’ said Bartholomew, understanding coming in a blinding flash. ‘Willelmus is the Latin form of William. You are William Hildersham!’

‘Hildersham,’ mused Michael. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

‘It is the name of the scrivener who killed Ayce’s son all those years ago.’

‘How in God’s name did you reason that?’ asked Michael, when Willelmus slumped to the floor and began to sob. ‘An ancient murder was the last thing on my mind today.’

‘Because Willelmus could have warned the Sheriff, and remained safely hidden in the castle until the raiders were caught and the danger was over. But he let the attack take place without a word. Ergo, they have some other hold over him.’

‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But what made you think of John Ayce? I know he was stabbed by a scribe, but there have been hundreds of them in Cambridge over the years.’

‘The clues are obvious with hindsight. What are the two letters Willelmus specialises in illustrating at the scriptorium?’

‘J and A,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘John Ayce!’

‘He also draws chickens. And how did Ayce earn his living? By supplying the castle with eggs!’

‘It was an accident,’ wept Willelmus. ‘A secular jury declared me guilty, but they would have found against me no matter what the evidence, because my trial took place at a time when relations between town and University were strained. But it was an accident!’

‘Yes, probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘The University thought it was a case of self-defence, and was willing to look the other way when you escaped into the Fens. Why did you come back?’

‘I fled to London, where I joined the Carmelites to atone for my crime,’ replied Willelmus miserably. ‘But they transferred me to Cambridge five years ago, to help in the scriptorium here. Fortunately, no one recognised me, and I took care to stay inside the friary as much as possible. But then Sheriff Tulyet demanded a scribe for the taxes …’

‘Which necessitated coming to the castle,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Where someone did recognise you. No wonder you have been driving Dick so hard! You itch to be safe back inside your sanctuary again.’

‘I was accosted as I walked home one night,’ said Willelmus, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘By a fellow who had been on the jury. He said he would tell Prior Etone my real name unless I did as I was ordered. Yet I have tried to make amends for John Ayce’s death! People will see the letters I drew, and will admire the chickens. They are my way of honouring the man I …’

‘I want the juror’s name,’ said Michael. He sighed irritably when Willelmus looked frightened again. ‘Your secret is out now, and you have confessed to it. The worst has already happened, so what more do you have to lose?’

‘I did not know what the raiders intended,’ bleated Willelmus. ‘I swear it! They just asked questions, and I answered. Besides, this is a big fortress – I assumed it could defend itself.’

‘The juror’s name,’ repeated Michael between gritted teeth.

‘Ayera terrifies me,’ replied Willelmus, more tears sprouting.

‘I am sure he does, but he was not on the jury. Now tell me the truth.’

‘You are right,’ said Willelmus with sudden resolve. ‘I have no more to lose, and it is time I faced up to my past. I will tell you the name, but I want to speak to Ayce first, to explain …’

‘He will not listen,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He believes his son was brutally murdered, and you are unlikely to convince him otherwise. Moreover, he is a warrior who is eager to die. It will be dangerous for you.’

‘I will be dead when I tell you what I know anyway,’ said Willelmus with quiet dignity. ‘But I want to make my peace with Ayce first.’

Bartholomew thought it was a bad idea to bring Ayce face to face with his son’s killer, but Willelmus was adamant, and Michael was eager to have the information he held. So was Tulyet, when the situation was explained to him.

‘It is irregular, but I suppose we can oblige,’ he said. ‘But answer me one thing first, Willelmus: how did you come by your limp? You claimed you fell down the stairs in the dark. Is it true, or did you grab a sword and fight for these damned marauders?’

That notion coaxed a reluctant smile to Willelmus’s pale face, and he pulled up his robe to reveal a badly swollen ankle. ‘I did fall down the stairs, but not in the dark. My eyesight …’

‘He is going blind,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet. ‘Etone intends to make him Girton’s parish priest soon, so that he will have to give up scribing in the hope of saving what little vision he has left.’

‘And I would have been miserable,’ said Willelmus softly. ‘Perhaps it is better this way.’

Tulyet led the way to the dungeon, Willelmus walking between Michael and Sergeant Helbye, dwarfed by both. Bartholomew brought up the rear, convinced they were making a mistake. Ayce was unstable, and he could not see him or Willelmus benefiting from the confrontation.

Ayce stood when the door to his cell was opened, mystified by the arrival of visitors, none of whom spoke as they parted to let Willelmus through. He stared in confusion at the scribe, but then recognition dawned, and his face registered a gamut of emotions – shock, horror and finally rage.

‘You mean to torment me by bringing my son’s killer here?’ he snarled. Bartholomew braced himself to intervene, but Tulyet grabbed his arm and held him back.

‘He wants to talk to you,’ explained Michael. ‘To tell you what happened.’

‘I already know what happened,’ shouted Ayce, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Take him away. I do not want to look at him.’

‘I have been living in terror of recognition every day for the past five years,’ whispered Willelmus. ‘I rarely leave my priory …’

‘I do not care,’ yelled Ayce. ‘You may be a friar now, but you are still a killer.’

‘Wait, Matt!’ hissed Tulyet, when the physician tried a second time to reach for the scribe. ‘The sooner Willelmus says his piece, the sooner we can have the information he–’

‘John deserved to die!’ screamed Willelmus suddenly, lunging forward. ‘He was a mindless, bullying, self-serving brute. I could have lived happily here, were it not for your bitter ramblings. The pair of you destroyed my life.’

Bartholomew fought free of Tulyet’s restraining grip, but it was too late. Willelmus had a knife, and had thrust it into Ayce’s chest before the astonished onlookers could stop him. Helbye reacted instinctively. His sword flashed and Willelmus dropped to the ground, even as Tulyet yelled for him to stop. Bartholomew shoved past the sergeant, and went to kneel next to Ayce – he did not need to examine Willelmus to know that he was beyond help.

‘You see?’ Ayce whispered weakly. ‘Hildersham was a killer, and felt no remorse. He would have claimed benefit of clergy a second time, had your soldier not acted.’

‘He spent his life drawing your son’s initials in books,’ said Bartholomew, confused and uncertain. ‘And chickens. He said it was to honour John’s memory.’

‘I doubt his motives were pure,’ breathed Ayce. ‘Still, at least fear of exposure seems to have tainted the freedom he should never have had. Some justice was served, at least.’

‘This should not have happened.’ Bartholomew tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound in Ayce’s chest, but it was hopeless.

‘You were kind to me, so I shall tell you something,’ whispered Ayce, almost inaudible. ‘You should look to your own house if you want to identify the raiders. Ayera was with us.’

It was not long before his laboured breathing faltered into silence. Bartholomew stood, sickened and angry by what had been allowed to happen.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Tulyet helplessly. ‘I thought the danger would come from Ayce, and it never occurred to me to search Willelmus for weapons. But why did he do it? Surely, only a fool or a madman would commit murder in front of the Sheriff?’

‘Because he had nothing to lose,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly. ‘His days at the scriptorium were numbered because of his failing eyesight, and Prior Etone intended to send him to Girton. But who lives in Girton? The Ayce family.’

‘I feel as though I have been used,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘By Willelmus and by Ayce – two men who would rather their blood was on my hands than face what their own futures held.’

‘Willelmus pretended to be meek, but he was anything but,’ said Helbye in the silence that followed. ‘Some of the lads were fooling about the other day, teasing him, and he grabbed a sword and drove them back like a lion. It is why I did not hesitate when I saw he had a dagger.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘He might have turned on us after dispatching Ayce. Unfortunately, we are now deprived of two men who had valuable information.’

‘You can find the name of the juror from court records,’ said Bartholomew. He was thoughtful. ‘However, I suspect the man who really terrified him into a swoon was Ayce. In other words, he fainted from shock when he saw his victim’s father.’

‘What did Ayce tell you as he breathed his last?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I tried to listen, but his voice was too low.’

‘It was not … he was difficult to hear,’ mumbled Bartholomew. He was not good at lying.

‘Tell me,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘It is no time for games.’

‘He claimed Ayera was among the raiders,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily, supposing Tulyet had a right to know, although his stomach twisted with guilt and shame as the words came out.

‘Ayera?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘He must be mistaken!’

‘Of course he was,’ agreed Michael smoothly. ‘And in the interests of harmony between town and University, I recommend that Matt and I look into the matter, Dick. Not you.’

‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, after a brief moment of reflection. ‘But will you send Cynric with news of what you discover? Whatever it may be? The moment you know it?’

‘As fast as he can run,’ agreed Michael.

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael hurried back to the College to confront Ayera. ‘I tried to dissemble, but Dick saw straight through me.’

‘It is not you who should be apologising,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It is Ayera. Thank God we have a Sheriff who appreciates the importance of good relations. Any other secular official would have raced to directly Michaelhouse and made an arrest. I am still furious with him over the rumour he started, but his prudence has gone some way to mollifying me.’

‘Our task will not be easy or pleasant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Gyseburne …’

‘Gyseburne what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew trailed off.

‘Gyseburne mentioned several men poisoned in Langelee’s house in York – by Ayera’s cook. They died from eating lily of the valley, which is one of Ayera’s favourite flowers.’

‘Ayera likes flowers?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Toxic ones. And they grow in Newe Inn’s garden, by the pond.’

Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying now? That Ayera killed those four scholars? And that Langelee may have helped him, because they have poisoned people together in the past?’

‘We now have three witnesses – Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce – who claim that Ayera is involved with the raiders, and Langelee was attacked in Newe Inn, which is where a lot of those particular flowers are growing.’

Michael’s eyes were enormous saucers in his plump face. ‘Lord, Matt!’

‘But Gyseburne does not like Ayera,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of ways to exonerate his colleagues despite the evidence that was beginning to build against them. ‘He says he has been afraid of him ever since the incident in York, and I imagine he will be delighted if Ayera is forced to leave the town. Thus he has good reason to twist the truth.’

‘Perhaps,’ nodded Michael. ‘Gyseburne is a sly, selfish fellow with a penchant for the wine barrel. He might well lie to incriminate a man who unsettles him.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether it was worse to believe ill of Ayera or Gyseburne, and uncomfortably, it occurred to him that both could not emerge well from the affair.

‘No one else knows our suspicion that Northwood and the others were poisoned,’ he went on. ‘Well, I mentioned it to Julitta, but everyone else seems convinced that the Devil is responsible.’

‘Or God,’ agreed Michael. ‘But what is your point? That Ayera suggested lily of the valley as the culprit, and so incriminated himself by knowing the real cause of death?’

‘It crossed my mind,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

‘Then we had better hurry,’ said Michael grimly, when Bartholomew began to drag his feet.

But Ayera was not home when they arrived, and none of the other Fellows knew where he had gone. Langelee was missing, too, and although it was not unusual for the Master to disappear of an evening – he had many friends, and often went out when work was finished for the day – his absence that night was worrying.

‘We need to find them,’ said Bartholomew, standing in the conclave and looking around helplessly. Suttone and William were sharing a plate of cakes, and Clippesby was playing with the College cat – back in favour now the rat had deemed places with libraries too dangerous.

‘I know, but they might be anywhere,’ said Michael, exasperated.

There was a flurry of Gilbertine habit and perfumed accessories as Thelnetham arrived. He flopped into a chair, and waved an imperious hand to say that Clippesby should bring him some wine. It was on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue to tell him to fetch it himself, but Clippesby shot him a warning glance. The Dominican hated discord, and the look said that pandering to Thelnetham’s supercilious manners was a small price to pay for peace.

‘Have you seen Ayera or Langelee?’ Michael demanded.

‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham, fanning himself with a beringed hand. ‘I passed them when I–’

‘Where were they going?’ interrupted Michael urgently.

Thelnetham frowned. ‘Why? What has Langelee done now? I have always said that he is not the kind of man who should be Master of a College, so it does not surprise me that–’

‘Where were they going?’ repeated Michael angrily.

‘To visit the White Friars,’ replied Thelnetham. He made a moue of distaste. ‘That particular priory is not a place I would set foot in, because Riborowe and Jorz are hardly conducive company. Of course, our Master is not very particular about–’

‘There is nothing wrong with Riborowe and Jorz,’ declared Suttone, rallying to the defence of his Carmelite brethren. Then he frowned. ‘But Langelee never ventures into our friary. He says we are too religious for his taste.’

‘He wanted some ink from its scriptorium,’ elaborated Thelnetham. ‘Apparently, they have invented a new kind, which is said to dry faster than the stuff Weasenham sells.’

‘It is red, too,’ put in Clippesby. ‘And Master Langelee likes red.’

‘Probably because it looks like blood,’ said Thelnetham with haughty contempt. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier.’

‘He does like red pigments,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Agatha complained to me not an hour ago that he had just handed her a tabard that was drenched in the stuff.’

He and Thelnetham began a discussion about annoying stains, but Bartholomew did not wait to hear it. He strode quickly through the hall and clattered down the stairs to the yard, aware of Michael behind him, especially once he started along Milne Street and the monk began to pant.

‘I still do not believe it,’ he said, his mind a whirl of confusion. ‘I cannot see Ayera or Langelee stealing the King’s taxes. Men died in that raid.’

‘“Only soldiers”.’ Michael echoed the geometrician’s chillingly callous words and Bartholomew recalled that he had been so shocked to hear them from the lips of a scholar that he had reported it to the monk. ‘Men who are expendable in battle.’

Bartholomew began to move faster, leaving Michael behind. When he arrived at the Carmelite Priory, he rapped hard on the gate. The doorman took his time answering, and Michael had caught up by the time the grille slid open.

‘God save us!’ the doorman muttered, crossing himself. ‘How did you know you were needed? We only discovered what happened a few moments ago. Perhaps the Corpse Examiner does have diabolical powers, and can detect the scent of cadavers.’

Bartholomew was too fraught to ask what he meant. ‘Are Langelee and Ayera here?’

The doorman grunted as he removed the heavy bar that secured the convent after sunset. He yanked open the gate and indicated they were to enter. ‘No, why?’

‘Have they left?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I have not seen them. Of course, they could have come in when I was doing my rounds.’

There was a shout, and Etone trotted towards them, all agitated hand gestures and swirling habit. ‘How did you know? We have only just discovered it ourselves.’

‘That is just what I said,’ muttered the doorman, crossing himself again.

‘How did we know about what?’ demanded Michael.

‘Come with me, Brother,’ said Etone grimly. ‘You, too, Matthew.’

They followed him to the scriptorium. The light had begun to fade, so work was finished for the day: lids were on inkpots, pens were laid in neat rows ready for the morning, and half-finished books and scrolls were locked in a chest for safekeeping. At the far end of the room was the little chamber where Jorz and Riborowe experimented. Etone beckoned them towards it.

Jorz was lying face-down in a bowl of ink. He had been sitting at a table, and there was a spoon in his right hand: he had evidently been stirring his potion when he had pitched forward. Red pigment was splattered everywhere.

Carefully, Bartholomew pulled Jorz upright. He was cool to the touch, and there was a stiffness around the jaws that suggested death had occurred some time before. The scribe’s face was stained bright scarlet, and the sight was so disturbing that Bartholomew covered it with a cloth.

‘We finished work early today, to decorate the chapel for Corpus Christi,’ Riborowe sobbed. ‘But Jorz stayed behind, because we had an experiment running.’

‘He was keen to perfect his invention,’ said Etone sadly. ‘He told me he was going to work for as long as the light allowed. I wish I had refused, then he would not have died alone.’

‘I came to see how he was getting on the moment we had finished the chapel,’ wept Riborowe. ‘But he must have had a seizure, and dropped face-down into his ink.’

‘Is that possible, Matt?’ asked Michael uncertainly.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘The cause of death does appear to be drowning, and the bowl is deep enough to submerge his nose and mouth.’

‘It could happen to any of us, at any time,’ said Etone. He whispered a brief prayer.

‘Did you make any attempt to pull him out, perhaps to see whether he was still breathing?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the explosion of droplets and smears around the bowl.

‘We could see he was dead, so we did not try,’ said Etone. ‘I thought it would be more helpful if you saw him just as he was discovered.’

‘It is helpful; thank you,’ said Bartholomew, homing in on a clue that would have been lost if the body had been moved. ‘Jorz said he preferred to draw with his left hand, and was clumsy with his right. Yet he is holding the spoon in his right hand.’

‘That means nothing.’ Riborowe wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He often poured with one hand, while stirring with the other. Like most of us, he was adept with both.’

‘But there is nothing on the table for him to pour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was stirring only. And even if he was two-handed, it is natural to perform such a task with the dominant one.’

‘Why are you asking these questions?’ Etone was beginning to look alarmed. ‘Surely, you do not think someone did this to him? That he was murdered?’

‘Batayl!’ cried Riborowe immediately. ‘They do not believe we are innocent of killing Coslaye, and now Browne is missing. They think we dispatched him, too, and they killed Jorz in revenge!’

‘Batayl did not do this,’ said Michael quickly, although Bartholomew recalled that Browne had crept into the scriptorium on a previous occasion and made Jorz jump violently enough to burn himself. It was entirely possible that he had done it again, this time with fatal consequences – assuming he was still alive himself, of course.

‘I agree,’ said Etone quietly. ‘The Batayl men are unpleasant, but they are not killers.’

‘Regardless,’ said Riborowe, suddenly fearful, ‘Jorz’s death is another connected to libraries.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes.

‘I refer to the rumour that libraries are dangerous places,’ began Riborowe. ‘And–’

‘This is a scriptorium, not a library,’ interrupted Michael.

‘It is a place associated with books,’ countered Riborowe.

Etone crossed himself. ‘Perhaps God is trying to tell us something with all these accidents.’

‘Accidents?’ hissed Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I detect a human hand at work in this – and not one directed by the Almighty, either.’

‘Have you seen Langelee this evening?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or Ayera?’

‘I think I saw Langelee cross our yard earlier,’ said Etone, clearly taken aback by the question out of the blue. ‘But I may have been mistaken. Why?’

‘Because we need to speak to him,’ replied Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, not sure what to say. ‘In fact, we were looking for him when your doorman dragged us in to inspect Jorz.’

‘Well, if he appears, we shall pass the word that you want him,’ offered Etone agreeably.

Bartholomew helped two lay-brothers load Jorz on to a bier, to be carried to the chapel. Then, while Riborowe organised vigils and prayers for his dead friend’s soul, Etone accompanied the Michaelhouse men to the gate.

‘I suspect Jorz’s seizure was induced by the noxious substances he put in his ink,’ the Prior confided as they walked. ‘Some of them reeked, but he always resisted my efforts to encourage him into the fresh air. Northwood used to say the same, but Jorz never listened.’

‘Well, Matt?’ demanded Michael, once he and Bartholomew were outside and alone again. It was almost dark. ‘What do you really think?’

‘That Etone may be right: Jorz was using red lead in his ink, and that is very toxic. Perhaps he did faint from lack of clean air and toppled forward to drown. Or perhaps someone crept up behind him, and held his head in the basin until he stopped breathing. If the latter is true, whoever it was will be splattered with red ink – you saw the mess on the table.’

Michael was worried. ‘Suttone said that Langelee gave Agatha some ink-stained clothes to wash this evening. And Etone thought he saw him in the friary earlier. We must find him, and demand to know what is going on.’

‘Find him where?’ asked Bartholomew, equally anxious. ‘He might be anywhere. I will set Cynric to track him down, but he may not even be in the town.’

‘You mean he might have gone with Ayera to meet the raiders in the Fens?’

‘It is possible. Regardless, I have a terrible feeling that he is in danger – that Ayera has enmeshed him in something he does not fully understand and that may prove fatal to him. Perhaps Ayera killed Jorz, and Langelee tried to stop him. That would explain the inky clothes.’

‘Yes, it would.’ But Michael did not look convinced.

‘We are out of our depth here, Brother. Where is Dame Pelagia? We need her help.’

Michael winced. ‘Unfortunately, Browne, Langelee and Ayera are not the only ones who have disappeared. I cannot find my grandmother, either.’

Knowing it would be impossible to locate Langelee and Ayera on their own, Michael reluctantly enlisted the help of the other Fellows. He silenced their objections by furnishing a terse account of what Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce had claimed, adding that Ayera had not been the only Michaelhouse man to roam the town at odd hours, because the Master had been doing it, too.

‘I knew it!’ hissed Thelnetham, when the monk had finished. ‘I knew the villain in that pair would not lie dormant for long. And now they harm the rest of us by association.’

‘Let us not jump to conclusions,’ said Father William warningly. ‘Nothing has been proven.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘Ayera has been meeting dangerous men in dark places for the last two months or so, because the rat told me, but there will be an innocent explanation.’

Michael rounded on him. ‘What have you seen, exactly.’

Clippesby looked more lunatic than ever that evening, with spiky hair and wild eyes. ‘The rat saw robbers prowling, and Ayera was with them. But when I told the Sheriff, he said she was mistaken, because his patrols would have seen them, too. However, it was easy for the raiders to avoid his officers, because they knew which routes they would take. I heard them say so.’

‘Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘He overheard Dick’s plans and passed them on.’

‘I wish I was in a normal College,’ muttered Thelnetham. ‘But no, I am at Michaelhouse, whose Fellows chat to vermin and consort with thieves. What did I do to deserve this?’

‘Well, you dress like a woman, for a start,’ replied William, who did not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. ‘And God does not like it. However, you had better be discreet with what you have learned about the Master and Ayera tonight. If their antics become public, it will signal the end of our College.’

‘Oh, I shall be discreet,’ said Thelnetham bitterly. ‘I have my own reputation to think of. Where do you want us to look for these rogues, Brother? And what shall we do if we find them?’

‘Bring them home,’ replied Michael. ‘I shall be waiting.’

‘What if they decline to come?’ asked Suttone anxiously. ‘I shall point out that the game is up, and that their only recourse is to return to Michaelhouse, but what if they refuse? We can hardly remove them by force. They are warriors!’

‘Fetch me, so I can do the explaining.’ Michael began to assign tasks. ‘William will look in the taverns, Suttone will explore the brothels–’

‘Really?’ asked Suttone, brightening. ‘Perhaps this will not be such a terrible night after all.’

‘Matt can visit those hostels where Langelee has friends, Thelnetham will make enquiries in the Colleges, and Clippesby will take the convents. Now go – and remember that no one must know why we are looking, or we shall be ruined for certain.’

It was a long and unrewarding night. Langelee was a friendly soul, with many acquaintances, and Bartholomew trudged from hostel to hostel, knocking on doors if lamps burned within, and listening outside when the buildings were in darkness. He persisted for hours, ignoring the rational voice at the back of his mind that told him he was wasting his time.

Tulyet’s soldiers and Michael’s beadles were out in force, and it was not easy to convince them that he was visiting patients every time they met. Eventually, he hid in doorways or crouched behind rubbish heaps when he heard them coming, and was alarmed when he discovered how easy it was to elude them. No wonder the raiders had been able to reconnoitre so efficiently!

It was during the darkest part of the short summer night that he ran into trouble. He had just endured a fruitless foray to Maud’s Hostel, an establishment favoured by wealthy men of low intelligence – Langelee had always felt at home there – when he saw shadows moving at the end of the street. They were clad in short cloaks, and all wore hoods to conceal their faces. He froze, then eased forward, trying to remember Cynric’s lessons about stealth as he aimed to get close enough to eavesdrop. They were speaking French.

‘… for tonight,’ one was saying. ‘And then she will tell us all we need to know.’

‘I doubt it,’ another replied with conviction. His voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. ‘Do you not know who she is?’

‘Just some crone who will have her throat cut once we have drained her of information,’ said the first. ‘But it is your fault she overheard us talking. I told you that someone was watching, and you should have heeded me.’

‘It was–’ The second man broke off suddenly. ‘She is escaping! Stop her!’

A small shape scuttled from the base of a wall, and Bartholomew thought he could make out a pile of discarded ropes. However, while Dame Pelagia was remarkably spry for a woman of her age, she was no match for men in their prime. He saw they were going to catch her again, and reacted instinctively, hauling a knife from his bag and racing forward. Too late, it occurred to him that he was no match for so many villains, either.

‘Here they are!’ he yelled over his shoulder to nonexistent help. ‘We can take them now!’

He did not know whether he was more relieved or surprised when the invaders promptly melted away. He continued shouting, and it was not long before the racket drew Tulyet’s guards. Shakily, he jabbed a finger in the direction the robbers had taken, although he doubted they would be caught now. He leaned against a wall, his legs like jelly once the danger was over.

‘That was brave,’ said Pelagia, materialising at his side and making him jump. ‘They would have caught me again, which would not have been pleasant.’

‘Were you spying on them?’ he asked, trying to control the unsteadiness in his voice.

‘Of course. Unfortunately, they said nothing of value, and I still do not know their identities, their plans or the whereabouts of their camp. I was careless in my eagerness to learn, and I tripped over some rubbish. I must be getting old.’

‘What will you do now?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Go to bed.’ Despite her efforts to conceal it, he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. ‘They will have left the town by now, so there is no point in my staying out any longer.’

‘Michael was worried when he could not find you earlier.’

‘He is a dear boy, but he need not concern himself. Will you give him a message? Tell him that I am sure there will be another raid during Corpus Christi, and that the tales claiming that their previous failure means they are too frightened to try again are a nonsense.’

‘I do not suppose you have seen Langelee this evening, have you?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pelagia shook her head. ‘But I imagine he is tucked up in bed with someone else’s wife.’

Bartholomew escorted her to the inn where she was staying, then turned towards Michaelhouse. He had done all he could that night.

The other Fellows had also decided that the hunt for Langelee and Ayera was a waste of time, and most had retired to their rooms by the time Bartholomew arrived home. Michael was in the hall, the bestiary from Bene’t College open in front of him. Rolee’s blood had been meticulously scoured off it.

‘I shall stay here, just in case Ayera and Langelee decide to return,’ he said tiredly. ‘But you should rest. One of us should be alert tomorrow, because it is the day before Corpus Christi, and if we do not have answers then, we shall have trouble for certain.’

‘I think we shall have it anyway,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Solving the murders will make no difference one way or the other now.’

‘I disagree. The armed raiders may still attack, but presenting our scholars with a culprit for these suspicious deaths will soothe troubled waters. Ergo, it is imperative that we succeed. But I cannot stop thinking about Jorz. Etone may be right: perhaps he did have a seizure.’

‘Perhaps, but he was a healthy man with no history of them. Moreover, it is suspicious that he should die now, after what happened to Rolee, Teversham, Sawtre and Kente. All look like mishaps, but there are too many of them to be innocent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael sombrely. ‘But rest now, Matt, or you will be no good to me tomorrow.’

Bartholomew fell into a restless sleep, and was awake long before the bell chimed for mass the following morning, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the jumble of facts he had accumulated. He kept coming back to Holm, whom he had caught out in several lies and who was certainly ruthless enough to kill to suit himself. He tried to be objective, analysing the information from different angles, but the surgeon seemed to be the guilty party whichever way he viewed it.

Langelee and Ayera were still missing when the scholars assembled to process to the church, and so was Clippesby. The Dominican had not been seen since he had given up his trawl of the convents the previous night, when he had told William that he was going to visit some bats.

‘You know what he is like,’ said William apologetically. ‘I tried to tell him it would be safer to come home, but he would not listen. And I was too weary to reason with him.’

They attended their daily devotions, which went on longer than usual because Suttone was officiating and he was inclined to be wordy – and there was no Langelee to hurry him along with impatient sighs and meaningful glares. When the ceremony was finally over, Cynric was waiting to tell Bartholomew that Holm had visited the wounded men in the castle, and had meddled with their dressings. Several were now in pain.

Bartholomew strode there quickly, aware that the streets were busier than they had been the previous day. The atmosphere was curious – a mixture of fear and unease from those who had possessions to lose if the raid did occur; and happy expectancy from those with nothing, who were looking forward to the celebrations that had been so long in the planning.

Determined to have the pennies folk had been hoarding for the occasion before anything went wrong, the Guild of Corpus Christi had decided to start the festivities early. Bakers’ ovens were going full blast, ale was being sold in the churchyards, portable stalls were open to sell trinkets, and entertainers were ready with their miracle plays. The taverns were open, too, and there was a maypole near the Round Church where a band of musicians filled the air with a lively jig.

‘It was not his fault,’ said a pale Julitta, when Bartholomew arrived at the castle and regarded Holm’s handiwork with dismay. ‘He was trying to help.’

‘She is an angel,’ murmured Tulyet in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘She visits my men every day, and they rally when they see her. It is a pity her fiancé is rather less adept with the sick.’

Bartholomew unbound the dressings, appalled by the amount of ‘healing balm’ Holm had slathered on the wounds. It smelled rank, and took him some time to rinse off. Julitta helped, but said little, and he saw she was distressed by the patients’ suffering. He recalled Michael saying she would be a suspect if Browne transpired to be dead, and wondered how the monk could think ill of such a dignified, compassionate woman.

‘He did it last night,’ she said, after a while.

Bartholomew had been enjoying her proximity and the soft touch of her hands when their fingers met. Idly, it occurred to him that he had not visited his widow since meeting Julitta, and was surprised to discover that he had not thought of her once. The realisation made him ashamed, and he supposed he would have to go to her and explain his recent neglect, although he did not know what he could say: he could hardly inform her that his mind had been full of another man’s bride.

‘Who did what last night?’ he asked, wondering whether his reverie meant that he had missed part of a discussion.

‘My fiancé – he came to minister to the wounded. I was worried when some of the men said their wounds were throbbing afterwards, so I came early this morning, to see how they were. I sent for him when two seemed feverish, but he was out. So I summoned you instead.’

‘You did the right thing,’ Bartholomew assured her.

‘Holm will not touch them again,’ vowed Tulyet, when she had gone to fetch clean water. ‘He is banned from now on. Julitta is a fool for him – he does not deserve her.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, watching her stop to exchange words with Robin. Agatha’s nephew was in pain, but her approach made him smile, which said a good deal about the place she had claimed in his heart. In fact, Bartholomew was sure her nursing had made a difference between life and death for some of the wounded, and he was grateful to her for it.

‘My wife thinks I should tell her what she is marrying,’ Tulyet went on. ‘But I doubt she would listen to me. Even her sister cannot make her open her eyes.’

‘It is worth a try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is worth a try.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Although you must remember that her father is a very powerful and decisive man, yet Julitta can wind him around her little finger. She is not a submissive nonentity, but an extremely intelligent, capable and determined young woman.’

‘Even more reason for her not to wed Holm, then,’ said Bartholomew.