Murder by the Book

Chapter 11

It was evening by the time Bartholomew had finished at the castle, and he left to find Cynric waiting with a message that Isnard needed to see him. The bargeman had taken full advantage of the Guild of Corpus Christi’s decision to celebrate early, and had managed to knock himself senseless as he had tottered drunkenly along the towpath.

‘The riverfolk found me and brought me home,’ he explained feebly.

Bartholomew frowned when he saw the painful-looking lump on the back of Isnard’s skull. ‘How did you say this happened?’

‘I tripped,’ explained Isnard. ‘One moment I was walking along, thinking about Holm’s five-mark bet with you, and the next thing I knew was Torvin looming over me.’

‘It is hard to bang the back of your head when walking forward. I suspect you were struck from behind.’

‘The bastard!’ exclaimed Isnard in sudden indignation. ‘He smiled and simpered at me so prettily, too, the Judas!’

‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, applying a poultice to the bump and indicating that Isnard should lie back. He decided to fetch Valence to sit with him, because the blow had been vicious.

‘Frevill,’ replied Isnard. ‘The one who is the carpenter, working at Newe Inn.’

‘Why would he hit you?’

Isnard frowned. ‘I cannot recall now. Perhaps accusations were made … but no, it will not come. The clout he gave me must have knocked it clean out of my head.’

Or the copious quantities of ale he had consumed had addled his wits, Bartholomew thought uncharitably. He left the bargeman and walked back to Michaelhouse, where his students had finished reading the texts he had set them, and were about to escape.

‘When was the last time you heard Nicholas’s Antidotarium?’ he asked, raising his hand to stop them. One or two regarded him with expressions that verged on the murderous, although the bulk merely sighed and looked resigned.

Valence brightened, though, seeing an avenue of escape. ‘We consulted it this week, when you mentioned poisoning by lily of the valley.’

‘Consulting is not the same as reading,’ said Bartholomew, and set them a section that he could manage easily in an hour, blithely unaware that it would take them considerably longer.

They slouched back to the hall with faces like thunder, while Valence danced towards the gate, delighted to be granted a reprieve in the guise of monitoring Isnard. Then Michael approached, grey with fatigue and scowling.

‘Where have you been all day? I have been racing all over the town like a bluebottle, trying to investigate murder and find our errant colleagues. It would have been good to have had your help.’

‘Shall we resume our hunt for Ayera and Langelee tonight, Brother?’ asked William, coming to join them before Bartholomew could reply. The other Fellows – except Clippesby – were at his heels. ‘Thelnetham has offered to stay here and supervise our students, if you think we should.’

‘Our lads should not be allowed out this evening,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘Far too much ale has been swallowed by the town’s rowdier elements, and the streets do not feel safe.’

‘I agree,’ said Suttone. ‘So I shall stay in, too, while the rest of you find Langelee and Ayera. I am not very good at fighting, and I am exhausted anyway, from exploring brothels all last night.’

William sniggered, and Bartholomew supposed the Carmelite did look rather the worse for wear, although a gleam in his eye said the experience had not been altogether unpleasant. Despite his habit, Suttone liked the company of ladies.

‘I do not want anyone out tonight,’ said Michael. ‘Servants, students or Fellows. Langelee and Ayera will just have to fend for themselves.’

‘We shall keep everyone in,’ promised William. ‘How long will it be for, do you think? Until after Corpus Christi? Or shall we wait until the next raid is finished before venturing out?’

‘The robbers may not come again,’ said Suttone, although with scant conviction.

‘They will,’ countered William. ‘The only question is when. Personally, I think it will be tomorrow night, when everyone has had too much to drink – for then we will struggle to mount any form of defence.’

‘No,’ countered Thelnetham, unwilling to let anything uttered by the Franciscan pass unchallenged. ‘It will be during the pageant or the opening of the library.’

‘In daylight?’ scoffed William. ‘I do not think so!’

‘These men are professional and ruthless,’ argued Thelnetham. ‘They have taken care to hide their faces thus far, but they may decide that anonymity will not matter once they have fired the town and slaughtered all its inhabitants. They will launch their assault during the ceremonies, because that is when they are least expected – and when they will have the element of surprise.’

‘But they have already lost it,’ objected William. ‘We all know they are coming.’

‘Yes, but we do not know exactly when,’ persisted Thelnetham. ‘And during the festivities, all the soldiers and beadles will be struggling to monitor the crowds, so they will be too busy to notice anything else. The robbers will use this as a diversion to launch their assault.’

‘Our beadles will certainly be distracted if the Common Library’s opponents use these murders as an excuse to disrupt the opening ceremony,’ said Suttone soberly. ‘Its supporters will retaliate, and the resulting fracas will involve every member of the University.’

Michael groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘That means I have one night to find our killer, because Suttone is right: a brawl will provide exactly the “diversion” these villains want.’

‘Cancel the opening,’ said William. ‘Indeed, cancel the library. It never was a sensible idea.’

‘I wish I could,’ sighed Michael. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell has made promises that are difficult to break, and wealthy townsmen will never give us anything again if we spoil Dunning’s day.’

‘That may not matter,’ warned William, ‘if we have no University left to receive gifts.’

Michael groaned again. ‘Thank God Tynkell is retiring soon, because I cannot work with a Chancellor who meddles. Shame on him and his desire to make a name for himself!’

‘The name he makes will not be a good one if his library opens in a welter of blood,’ said William ghoulishly. ‘But do not worry about Michaelhouse, Brother. We Fellows will keep it safe.’

‘And do not look so glum,’ added Suttone kindly. ‘You will catch your villain. No sly killer will best our intrepid Senior Proctor.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this whole affair.’

Because Michael was silent as they left the College, Bartholomew confided his suspicions about Holm, thinking it would do no harm to review the evidence against the surgeon.

‘You want Holm to be guilty, because you have taken a fancy to Julitta,’ said Michael acidly. ‘And you do not want him to wed her.’

‘You are right: I do not want her life spoiled by a man who only wants to inherit her father’s money,’ Bartholomew snapped back. ‘However, it has nothing to do with my–’

‘Do not dissemble with me. However, while I appreciate that Holm as the villain will please you – especially as you will save five marks if he is hanged – the fact is that there is no proof.’

‘Of course there is proof,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘He is not a real surgeon for a start, yet he still wanders the town at night on the pretext of seeing patients. It must be because he is spying for the invaders. Moreover, he arrived on Easter Day, which is when the raiders claimed their first victim. And he lies about his whereabouts.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

‘Dunning wanted help with reorganising the pageant after the attack on the castle, but Holm excused himself on the grounds that he would be with the injured. At the time, I assumed it was simple indolence, but now I wonder if he had another motive.’

‘Not necessarily. He is lazy – he was napping yesterday when we visited in the middle of the day, so he probably lied to secure himself a good night’s sleep. Or a frolic with Browne.’

‘Then what about the fact that Browne is missing? Perhaps Browne discovered Holm’s guilt, and was killed to ensure the secret was shared with no one else.’

‘That is not proof, Matt. It is rank supposition without a shred of evidence.’

‘He pestered me and the other physicians for the wildfire formula,’ Bartholomew went on, determined to make Michael see his point of view. ‘He started the moment he found out what we had done, and was talking about it just before I was first ambushed. Perhaps he was among the three who threatened to–’

‘Again, there is no proof.’

‘The singers,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He hired singers to entertain Walkelate and his people on the night that Northwood, the Londons and Vale died. Obviously, he did it to mask any noise he might make while he poisoned them.’

Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Julitta must really have captured your heart! It is unlike you to draw wild conclusions from such scant evidence.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is this?’ asked Michael, alarmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, Brother.’ Clippesby sped away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Will you help him?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘What in God’s name …’ began Tulyet.

‘Artillery!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘I saw it used at Poitiers. I imagine that missile came from a bombard.’

‘God’s tears!’ exclaimed Tulyet, appalled. ‘Who are these men?’

Tulyet began to yell orders to his guards, who were gazing in open-mouthed shock at the spectacle. Then there was a second boom, and a stone hit the wall outside with an almighty crack. The sound jolted the garrison into action and they raced to carry out Tulyet’s commands. Within moments, the castle was alive with activity. Some soldiers were detailed to draw buckets of water to douse fires, others were moving horses to a safer place, while others still were breaking out weapons from the armoury. Bartholomew felt a sword thrust into his hand.

‘No!’ he exclaimed in alarm, trying to pass it back.

‘You do not want to be unarmed tonight, believe me,’ said Sergeant Helbye tartly. ‘You may need to defend yourself.’

After a while, another projectile slammed into the eastern wall. It made a terrible noise, but Tulyet’s engineers peered over the parapet and shouted that there was no appreciable harm.

‘What are they trying to do, Matt?’ demanded Tulyet. ‘You have seen these infernal machines in action. Do they intend to shatter my walls, then pour through the breach?’

‘Not unless they plan to be here a while. Bombards do not have the power of trebuchets, or the ability to cause widespread injuries like ribauldequins.’

‘Then why bother?’ asked Tulyet, white-faced.

‘To unsettle you, probably. You have not seen artillery deployed before, and they anticipate that you will not know how to react.’

Tulyet scowled. ‘Then they will discover that I am not as easily dismayed as the French.’

‘Unless …’ Bartholomew regarded Tulyet in alarm. ‘Do you think this is a ruse, to keep you inside while the real attack is elsewhere? It does not take many men to handle one of those devices, leaving the bulk of the robbers free to do as they please.’

Tulyet stared back. ‘In other words, I shall later be accused of cowering inside my stronghold, while the town and its University is razed to the ground.’

He whipped around to issue more orders, and Bartholomew found himself included in the party that was to venture outside. He was grateful, no more keen to skulk in the castle than the Sheriff. He followed Tulyet through the Gatehouse, and was certain his suspicions were right when they met no resistance. Sergeant Helbye led a small group east, to work their way behind where they thought the bombard was set. The rest followed Tulyet down the hill, towards the Great Bridge.

‘The watchman!’ cried Bartholomew, hurrying over to a dark shape on the ground. The fellow was dead, and his companions were in their shelter, too frightened to come out.

‘There was a whole army of them, sir!’ cried one, when he looked through the window and recognised Tulyet. ‘They were on us before we could react, so we decided to stay here …’ He hung his head, aware that he had not behaved honourably.

Tulyet did not waste time berating him, and merely gestured that the rest of his unit was to advance. The streets were oddly deserted, and somewhere a dog barked frantically. Bartholomew saw a shadow in front of them, and tensed, but it was only Cynric.

‘Some are on the High Street,’ the Welshman whispered. ‘Thirty or so, all armed to the teeth.’

Tulyet broke into a trot, his warriors at his heels, so Bartholomew and Cynric followed. As they turned into the High Street, they saw shadows outside King’s Hall. They were fiddling with something below the gate, and it did not take a genius to see that they planned to set it alight.

Tulyet ducked out of sight, and issued a series of low-voiced instructions. Immediately, several of his men lit lanterns. The instant they were ready, he released a resounding whoop and tore towards the enemy, his men baying behind him. Bartholomew saw the robbers’ shock as they whipped around: clearly, they had not expected trouble from the castle. Several took flight, panicked by the shouting and sudden profusion of lights. Bartholomew grabbed Cynric’s arm.

‘Go to All Saints and ring the bell,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Quickly!’

Cynric hesitated, preferring to fight, but then ran to do as he was told. Bartholomew looked back to the affray, and saw Tulyet down on one knee while a raider prepared to make an end of him with a mace. He raced forward, and knocked the fellow off his feet with a punch that hurt his hand.

‘Use your sword,’ advised Tulyet, scrambling upright. ‘Fists have no place here.’

Bartholomew heard a sound behind him, and only just managed to parry the blow that was intended to decapitate him. His assailant was tall and bulky, and he could not help but wonder whether it might be Ayera or Langelee. The man advanced with deadly purpose, and Bartholomew saw he meant to kill. Panic made him inventive, and in a somewhat unorthodox move he lashed out with his left hand and caught his opponent a sharp jab on the chin. It sent the fellow’s helmet flying from his head and made the hood fall from his face.

‘Frevill!’

Furious at being recognised, the carpenter stabbed viciously. Bartholomew twisted away, but tripped over a dead skirmisher who was sprawled behind him. Frevill leapt forward to stand over him, raising his weapon above his head to deal the killing blow. The sword began to descend.

At that moment, the bell began to clang. It made Frevill start and spoiled his aim. Snarling in fury, he lifted the blade again, but suddenly pitched forward, a dagger protruding from his back. Bartholomew looked around wildly, and saw a shadow in a doorway. His first thought was that it was Dame Pelagia, but it was too large. Then another raider attacked, and all his attention was taken with trying to prevent himself from being skewered.

But Cynric’s alarm bell turned the tide of the skirmish, and the raiders retreated as townsmen and scholars poured from their homes to see what was happening. The withdrawal became a rout when arrows began to rain down from the walls of King’s Hall. Tulyet quickly regrouped his men, and set off in pursuit. Then Warden Shropham appeared, his Fellows at his heels. Those who were armed ran to help Tulyet, leaving those who were priests to tend to the dead and dying.

‘Were any of the raiders captured alive?’ Bartholomew asked of Cynric, as he struggled to save the life of a man with a severed arm. ‘Dick will want to question them.’

‘No,’ replied the book-bearer. ‘The fighting was violent and bitter – the invaders could not afford to be taken prisoner, while the castle wanted to redress the humiliation of last time. But the robbers lost seven men, and we lost only two. We conducted ourselves more respectably this time.’

Cynric’s bell had filled the streets with indignant townsmen and scholars, all of whom had armed themselves with sticks, cudgels and even garden tools. They helped Tulyet hunt for the raiders in the dark lanes, and so did Michael’s beadles, although it was not long before the Sheriff returned to King’s Hall, his face dark with anger and disappointment as he reported that they had all managed to escape. Cynric offered to track the villains back to the marshes, but although Tulyet dispatched a unit of soldiers to accompany him, he did not look hopeful.

Dame Pelagia was among those who came to inspect the aftermath of the skirmish.

‘Have you seen Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked her. He was looking at the raiders’ bodies, relieved beyond measure when none were familiar. ‘Or Ayera?’

Pelagia shook her head, her expression unfathomable as always. ‘Why?’

‘Damn these villains!’ cried Tulyet, sparing Bartholomew the need to answer. ‘Who are they? And what did they want at King’s Hall?’

‘It is the best fortified of the Colleges,’ explained Shropham in his quiet, understated manner. ‘And there is a rumour that the taxes are hidden in the University. King’s Hall is certainly where I would look first, were I a thief intent on acquiring crates of money.’

‘Well, yes,’ mumbled Tulyet, not looking at Bartholomew. ‘There is a tale to that effect.’

‘You did well, Sheriff,’ said Pelagia with a sinister grin. ‘You saw through their sly plot to divert you, and taught them that Cambridge is a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tulyet, although he was looking at his dead guards and did not smile back. He glanced up when someone hurried towards him.

‘We found the bombard, but it was abandoned,’ gasped Helbye. ‘They must have heard us coming and took flight. We tried to follow, but it was too dark.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Tulyet. Then resolve filled his face. ‘We shall gather every able man in the town and hunt them down the moment it is light enough to see.’

‘That would not be wise,’ said Pelagia softly. ‘You will not catch them, and your absence will leave the town vulnerable. They will launch another raid tomorrow, and you must be here to meet them.’

‘You seem to know a lot about them, madam,’ said Tulyet suspiciously.

‘I have been listening to rumours and questioning travellers. Stay here, and help my grandson defend the University when they strike again.’

‘Are you sure they will come?’ asked Shropham. ‘You do not think they have learned that we are no easy pickings? That they will leave us alone now?’

‘I do not,’ stated Pelagia firmly. ‘They will appear again tomorrow – during the celebrations, almost certainly, when everyone is distracted.’

‘Then we shall cancel the pageant,’ said Tulyet grimly. ‘The Guild of Corpus Christi will have to listen to me now. And if they refuse, I shall declare a state of military law, one that will last until all these villains are safely inside in my gaol.’

‘These brigands are nothing if not patient,’ said Shropham, thinking like the soldier he had once been. ‘Look how long they have spent reconnoitring and planning. Ergo, I suspect that if you do cancel the festivities, they will simply wait for another occasion. And we cannot remain in a state of high alert indefinitely.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Tulyet angrily. ‘That we carry on as normal, and let them saunter in to take whatever they please?’

‘That we carry on as normal as a way to lure them here,’ replied Shropham. ‘And then launch an attack of our own, to ensure they do not “saunter” out again.’

‘It might work,’ said Pelagia. ‘But then again, it might not.’

While Pelagia, Shropham, Tulyet and Michael argued over tactics, Bartholomew set about carrying the dead to All Saints’ Church. There were too many of them, and even though most were raiders, he deplored the carnage.

‘I need a drink,’ said Michael, when Bartholomew had finished. ‘I know it is the middle of the night, but Landlord Lister will accommodate me, and we should discuss what has happened.’

If Lister was surprised to receive guests at such an hour, he hid it well. He brought wine and a plate of pastries, then left them alone to talk.

‘Lord!’ said Michael, scrubbing his face with his hands. ‘What a terrible night!’

‘Tomorrow will be worse,’ came a soft voice from the door. Both scholars leapt in alarm as Dame Pelagia glided into the room and casually took a seat.

‘How did you get in?’ Bartholomew’s nerves were raw. ‘I saw Lister lock the door behind us.’

Pelagia merely smiled. ‘Is there a spare cup of wine? It has been a long evening, and I am not as young as I was.’

She looked perfectly sprightly to Bartholomew.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were discussing battle tactics with Tulyet.’

‘He can manage without me,’ replied Pelagia, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the claret. ‘And I wanted to talk to you, because it is time to use your clever wits – you have more than enough information to identify the villain who has been murdering scholars in libraries. And you are right: if we present a culprit it may avert trouble.’

‘We have nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Michael, stunned by the claim. ‘Or I would have made an arrest already.’

‘You have failed to analyse the facts with your usual acuity,’ countered Pelagia. ‘And it is time to rectify the matter. So think!’

Bartholomew struggled to push his disgust at the recent slaughter to the back of his mind, and do as she ordered. ‘The first murders were the four men who died in Newe Inn’s pond,’ he began.

‘No,’ said Pelagia. ‘You are allowing a coincidence of location to mislead you, and I do not believe they are all the same case. Whose was the first death connected to a library?’

‘Sawtre’s,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was crushed under a bookshelf.’

‘Good,’ said Pelagia, sipping more wine. ‘Continue.’

‘It was an accident. It cannot have been murder, because that would have entailed Sawtre waiting patiently while the rack was hauled on top of him, but people talked about it as though it were retribution for him supporting the Common Library.’ Bartholomew glanced at Pelagia, encouraged to see her nodding. ‘So it gave someone an idea?’

Pelagia clapped her hands. ‘There! You have it at last!’

‘The next to die was Rolee,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Dead of a broken neck. This looked like a mishap, but it would not have been difficult to tamper with the steps.’

‘Not difficult at all,’ agreed Pelagia.

‘The third victim was Coslaye, brained with Acton’s Questio Disputata. He was followed by Teversham, who choked to death when he became entangled in a book-chain. Teversham’s demise might have been bad luck – but it is more likely that a killer was on hand to ensure his victim fell in such a way as to strangle himself.’

‘Next was Kente, dead of a snake bite,’ said Michael, joining in. ‘The snake was in the bale of hay that Walkelate had bought to eliminate bad odours.’

‘Was it?’ asked Pelagia. ‘And was Kente the intended victim, or did the killer hope to bag another scholar? Walkelate himself, for example?’

‘And last was Jorz, drowned in ink,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Probably not after a seizure.’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘Just tell us the killer’s name. I am too tired for games.’

But Pelagia declined to make it easy for him. ‘Your choices are limited. It must be a scholar, because no townsman could have gained access to King’s Hall, Bene’t, Gonville, the Common Library, the Carmelite Priory and Batayl, where all these deaths occurred.’

‘Three victims supported the Common Library,’ said Michael tentatively, ‘while two were–’

Pelagia slapped her hand on the table irritably. ‘No! The killer could not have predicted it would be Rolee who would break his neck when the stair broke, or that it would be Kente who was bitten by the snake. The point was to make scholars think that libraries are dangerous. The victims’ identities are irrelevant to him.’

‘So the culprit is a library detractor,’ surmised Michael. ‘But the knowledge does not help us.’

‘Of course, it does,’ coaxed Pelagia. ‘Consider the death that does not seem to fit with the others. That is the one that will give you the key to the killer. Which death was different from the rest – more brutal, less subtle and perhaps more personal?’

‘Coslaye’s?’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He was brazenly murdered, whereas the others could ostensibly be accidents.’

‘Yes,’ said Pelagia encouragingly. ‘Go on.’

‘Is the culprit Pepin, then?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Because Coslaye painted a rather grim mural of a battle in which he doubtless lost friends and family, and rage led him to batter out his Principal’s brains? He did not plan it carefully like the others, but attacked in a blind fury?’

Pelagia rolled her eyes. ‘How could a mere student gain access to Colleges and the Carmelite Priory? However, your analysis of the crime and the killer’s motivation is probably correct.’

‘Browne!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The man who has been spreading the tale that libraries are dangerous! He and Coslaye quarrelled constantly, and Coslaye was a violent man himself. An altercation may well have led to a murder committed on the spur of the moment. And Browne became Principal of Batayl once Coslaye was dead.’

‘At last!’ muttered Pelagia. ‘I thought we would never get there. Now go and arrest him.’

‘We cannot,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘He is missing.’

Pelagia looked exasperated. ‘It is summer and the nights are mild. Sleeping outside is no hardship, especially to a man who is wont to frequent a certain garden, poaching fish …’

As Bartholomew and Michael hurried to Cholles Lane, they were astonished to see that dawn was not far off – at which point Corpus Christi would be upon them with all its attendant problems. The gate that led to Newe Inn’s garden was locked, but Michael had a key.

‘These grounds are extensive,’ he said, fumbling in his haste to insert it. ‘Do you think we should summon my beadles? It would not do to let Browne slip through our fingers.’

Bartholomew held up his hand. He had heard a noise.

‘There cannot be anyone here,’ whispered Michael. ‘The work is finished. It should be empty.’

‘Well, it is not,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I can hear hammering inside the library.’

They crept forward, and saw a light gleaming in one of the upper windows. The front door was ajar, so they stepped inside and made for the stairs. Bartholomew’s boots made far too much noise on the wooden steps, but he was as silent as a mouse compared to Michael. Fortunately, the trespasser was more intent on his own work than creaks from the stairwell, and when they reached the room holding the libri distribuendi, they saw him busily defacing one of the carvings with a mallet. He had lit a candle to see what he was doing, and it illuminated a face filled with malicious savagery.

‘Browne!’ exclaimed Michael.

Browne spun around, drawing a knife and holding it in a way that showed he was ready to lob it. ‘You should not be here,’ he snarled.

‘Neither should you,’ retorted Michael. ‘We know what you have done – and I do not refer to your despoiling of Walkelate’s artwork. I mean murder.’

Bartholomew winced. It was no way to address an armed man. He fumbled in his medical bag for the childbirth forceps, but they were tangled in a bandage, and would not come free.

‘Drop your sack on the floor,’ ordered Browne immediately. ‘And put your hands in the air. Both of you. I am good with knives, and I have two of them. I will kill you if you disobey me.’

The fierce determination in his face told Bartholomew that he would be wise to do as he was told. The bag fell with a thud, although he managed to palm a pot of salve first.

‘My beadles are waiting outside,’ lied Michael. ‘This is over, Browne. Put down the weapon before more blood is spilled – including your own.’

‘I cannot stop now,’ said Browne, glancing out of the window. ‘I have won! Scholars are frightened of what might happen to them in libraries, and this vile place will founder from lack of support – especially when it cannot open today because it is damaged. Of course, that will pale into insignificance compared to what else will happen this morning.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Michael uneasily.

‘I have been sleeping in the garden here – to go about my business without nosy students clamouring questions at me – and I overheard the robbers talking in the lane outside.’

‘I suppose it was you that I almost caught poking about by the pond on Saturday night,’ surmised Michael. Browne nodded, and started to answer, but the monk overrode him. ‘Never mind that. What did these villains say?’

‘They were discussing their plan for today,’ Browne gloated. ‘The one that will go down in the annals of history as the most cataclysmic event ever to befall this town.’

‘Then you must help us stop it,’ ordered Michael, alarmed. ‘This is your home, too, and–’

‘I shall use it,’ declared Browne viciously. ‘I shall ensure that all these suspicious deaths and the raid are blamed on the Common Library. That God smote Cambridge for founding one.’

‘That is lunacy!’ whispered Bartholomew, appalled. ‘It is–’

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and before Bartholomew or Michael could shout a warning, Walkelate had bustled in. The architect’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw he had visitors.

‘Have you come to help me prepare for–’ Then he saw the destruction Browne’s mallet had wrought, and his face crumpled in horror and dismay. ‘No! Oh, no! What have you done?’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Browne. There was a wild light in his eyes: he had not expected to be caught, and fear and agitation were turning him dangerous.

Walkelate’s jaw dropped in shock when he saw the knife. ‘I do not understand! What–’

‘I said shut up!’ snarled Browne. ‘Now stand against the wall, and put your hands on your heads. The first man to make a hostile move is dead. And so is the second.’

With no alternative, Bartholomew and Michael did as they were told. Walkelate, stunned and bewildered, opened his mouth to argue, but the monk hauled him to where Browne had indicated.

‘Give up, Browne,’ he urged softly. ‘You cannot win now. Too many people know–’

‘What do they know?’ sneered Browne. ‘No one knows anything.’

‘We know it was you who threw the book at Coslaye during the Convocation,’ said Bartholomew. He was aware of Michael’s surprise at the claim. ‘We thought it was an accident – an act of frustration rather than an attempt to kill. But we were wrong: you did intend murder.’

Browne blanched. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘It was a perfect opportunity,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘A lot of scholars were angry with him for speaking out against this library, and you knew that they – not you – would be suspects. Unfortunately for you, Coslaye had an unusually thick skull.’

‘Why would I kill my Principal?’ demanded Browne. ‘You are out of your wits, just like he was! Poitiers addled you!’

‘For two reasons,’ replied Bartholomew with a calm he did not feel. ‘First, because you disapproved of his obsession with the French wars. Batayl was originally called St Remegius–’

‘Batayl is a ridiculous name,’ spat Browne. ‘I shall change it now I am Principal.’

‘And second, because you wanted Coslaye’s post,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘But you will never have it. You have murdered too many people.’

‘Who else’s life has he taken?’ asked Walkelate in a small, frightened voice.

‘Sawtre’s fate gave you the idea,’ said Bartholomew, continuing to address Browne. ‘And then you went out and killed Rolee, Teversham, Kente and Jorz in sly ways that were intended to make people think that libraries were dangerous places to be. But you left clues.’

‘I never did! I was supremely careful.’ Browne grimaced his annoyance when he realised the remark was an admission of guilt. ‘They were all accidents – Rolee was not meant to break his neck; the adder was never meant to kill Kente; and I would not have had to strangle Teversham if he had stayed down after I knocked him into the lectern. However, I did not kill Jorz.’

‘God help us!’ breathed Walkelate, white-faced. ‘How could you have done such dreadful things?’

‘Because this damned library should never have come into existence!’ Browne rounded on him with fury. ‘It was born out of the Chancellor’s selfish desire to be remembered, and my fellow Regents should have voted against it. Newe Inn should have come to Batayl.’

‘But Coslaye was–’ began Walkelate.

‘He was a liability,’ Browne went on, cutting across him in his eagerness to spill the vitriol he had suppressed for so long. ‘Did you know he was helping the raiders? I know times are hard, but there are other ways to raise capital. And his savage temper made Batayl a laughing stock. I should have been Principal – I would have been, if Bartholomew had not saved Coslaye with his stupid surgery. You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate him for that.’

‘How did you choose your victims?’ asked Michael quickly, when Browne’s arm started to go back, all his pent-up rage and frustration focused on the physician.

‘I did not choose them,’ snarled Browne. ‘I just laid traps, and Rolee, Kente and Teversham were the ones who happened to walk into them.’

‘Did you kill Northwood, the London brothers and Vale, too?’ asked Walkelate unsteadily.

‘No!’ Browne’s livid glare went from Bartholomew to the architect. ‘I was as shocked as anyone to discover bodies in the pond where I go fishing.’

‘Please give up, Browne,’ begged Michael, glancing towards the window, where the sky was already pale blue. ‘Time is of the essence, and there has already been too much bloodshed.’

But Browne’s reply was to take aim again, his eyes blazing with hatred and rage. All Bartholomew could do to stop him was to lob the salve he had palmed, which he did with all his might. It missed by a considerable margin, but it was enough to spoil Browne’s aim. Michael cringed as the blade thudded into the panelling by his shoulder.

The resulting damage to the fine woodwork was more than Walkelate could bear. With a bellow of outrage he charged, fists flailing wildly. Browne flung up his hands to defend himself, and Walkelate’s momentum carried them both into the nearest bookcase. It teetered as they fell to the floor, depositing several heavy volumes and the bust of Aristotle on top of them.

‘You scoundrel!’ Walkelate sobbed as he pounded the culprit. ‘My beautiful library! What would poor Kente say if he could see what you have done?’

Bartholomew hauled him away and shoved him into Michael’s arms, although he could already tell that something was badly amiss with Browne.

‘His skull is cracked,’ he said after a brief examination. ‘He is dead.’

Walkelate stopped struggling, and what little colour remained in his face drained away. ‘You mean I have killed him?’ he whispered, wrath turning quickly to horror. ‘But I did not hit him that hard – not nearly as hard as he deserved!’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘The fatal wound came from Aristotle. His Principal was blessed with an unusually thick skull, but it seems Browne has an unusually thin one.’

There was nothing to be done for Browne, except to wrap him in his cloak ready to be taken to St Botolph’s Church. Bartholomew and Michael worked in silence, the only sound being Walkelate’s shocked whimpers, as his eyes went from the body to the damage that had been inflicted on his exquisite carvings. He did not seem to know which was worse.

‘Will presenting Browne as the villain be enough to avert trouble today, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked.

Michael rubbed his eyes with fingers that shook. ‘I do not know. It would have been better to present a living suspect – a corpse looks contrived. And Batayl will deny the charges, of course.’

‘Browne was lying,’ said Walkelate, regarding the body with a mixture of anger and distress. ‘He denied killing Northwood and the others, but I wager you anything you like that he did poison them as they experimented.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you say they were poisoned? We have not mentioned that theory to anyone else.’

‘Other than Julitta, apparently,’ muttered Michael. ‘And possibly Ayera.’

Walkelate shrugged. ‘Four men do not die of natural causes all at once, and Dunning told me that you found no signs of violence on their bodies. What else is left but poison?’

‘Everyone else seems to believe that God or the Devil is responsible.’ Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet Clippesby and Riborowe said those four dead men met here on a regular basis, and it is unlikely that they could have done it every time without you noticing. You spend all your time here, after all. And the answer is that you were experimenting with them!’

‘Steady on, Matt,’ murmured Michael. ‘You cannot accuse everyone of–’

‘But I was not with them the night they died,’ cried Walkelate. ‘How could I have been? I would have been poisoned, too. I was in here with my artisans, listening to the singers that Holm hired as we polished the shelves.’

Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘But that answer implies you joined them on other occasions! Why did you not mention it sooner? We have been desperate for clues about their deaths, and your testimony might have helped.’

Walkelate hung his head. ‘I did not dare, Brother. I was afraid you would stop me working on the library if I admitted to sharing their passion for invention. But I was going to confess tonight, when this place is open and nothing else will matter.’

‘So tell me now,’ said Michael angrily. ‘What were you doing? Making lamp fuel?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Walkelate. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew, I know you are working to that end, too, but I did it to raise money for the library. Vale said that whoever discovers clean-burning fuel will be rich, and Northwood invited me to join their team when I caught them in the garden one night.’

‘Why did he invite you?’ demanded Michael suspiciously.

‘Because I was able to make several useful suggestions,’ explained Walkelate. ‘Such as adding rock oil and red lead. He said my extensive knowledge of alchemy was invaluable.’

Michael scrubbed tiredly at his face. ‘We shall discuss this later, when you do not have bookcases to repair, and I do not have a “cataclysmic” raid and rebellious scholars to worry about.’

‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Walkelate gratefully. ‘I shall go to round up my artisans at once, and see what can be done to disguise Browne’s handiwork.’

While the architect disappeared about his business, Michael and Bartholomew carried Browne to the street, where the monk ordered three passing beadles to take the body to St Boltoph’s. The physician half listened to Michael telling his men what Browne had overheard, and let his mind wander to an image of Northwood, the London brothers and Vale conducting their experiments in the overgrown garden, and of Walkelate helping with new ideas. Then he thought about the substances Walkelate had recommended, and tendrils of unease began to writhe in his stomach.

‘Oh, no!’ he breathed, as understanding came crashing into his mind. ‘They were not making lamp fuel – you do not need red lead and rock oil for that. They were concocting something else.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘I am too tired and fraught for–’

‘Wildfire! Rock oil is what makes wildfire sticky and unquenchable.’

‘I sincerely doubt Walkelate and the others were making that! They–’

But Bartholomew’s mind was racing. ‘Northwood would have been interested only from an alchemical standpoint, but Vale liked money. And now we have Walkelate, eager to raise funds for his library. Of course, there are other clues that prove they were dabbling with weapons …’

‘There are?’ asked Michael warily.

‘Warden Shropham told us that Walkelate is the son of the King’s sergeant-at-arms, and such men will certainly receive military training in their youth.’

‘So did I, but it does not make me a candidate for inventing incendiary devices.’

‘The ingredients for lamp fuel must not be expensive,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘If they are, the invention will be useless, because no one will be able to afford to buy any. But military commanders rarely baulk at the cost of materials for weapons.’

‘So? I do not understand your point.’

‘The compounds Northwood was using were expensive, because he was stealing exemplar money to pay for them – Ruth told us.’

‘We did not find money in his cell,’ conceded Michael. ‘So it clearly was spent. But Walkelate just said Browne was lying – that our villainous Batayl man poisoned Northwood and his cronies. Why would Walkelate–’

‘To prevent you from seeing the truth, of course! And maybe it was he, not the raiders, who demanded the formula from Rougham and me. He probably recruited others to help him waylay us. Such as Holm – he is greedy and ruthless.’

‘Matt!’ cried Michael. ‘You are allowing dislike to interfere with your reason. Calm down and–’

‘I am perfectly calm! And if we dither over this, blood will be spilled.’

‘It will be spilled if we go adrift with erroneous assumptions,’ Michael shot back. ‘But if you are right, and Walkelate and his cronies were striving to invent something sinister, they would not have chosen Holm to assist them. They would have picked Gyseburne – a man fascinated with urine, which is combustible.’

‘No, it is Holm. He is Walkelate’s friend, who provides him with remedies to rid the library of unwanted smells.’ More solutions cracked clear in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘And if they were making wildfire, they will have used some very dangerous materials as well as expensive ones – such as red lead. They were poisoned, but they did it to themselves!’

Michael regarded him dubiously. ‘Then why did Vale have an arrow in his back?’

Bartholomew thought quickly. ‘Because when Walkelate tried to conceal the bodies by dumping them in the pond, Vale got caught on that platform. The others would have surfaced eventually, because of gases, but Walkelate probably does not know that. He must have shot the arrow in an effort to haul Vale free, and–’

‘That seems excessive,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘Why not just wade in and grab him?’

‘Impossible – the water is too deep. And perhaps he was in a hurry, because he was short of time – Browne often went fishing in the mornings. Or more likely, he did not want to immerse himself in toxic water.’

‘How would he know it was toxic?’

‘I think they dumped their failed experiments in it. It would certainly explain why I was ill after falling in, why your beadles felt unwell after dredging for bodies, and why the riverfolk and Batayl were sick after eating its fish. There is Agatha’s testimony, too.’

‘What testimony?’

‘She said the pond emits bad smells on certain nights – doubtless when Northwood and his helpmeets worked, producing stenches that people noticed. Cynric remarked on it, too. Red lead releases toxic fumes when it is heated. And the bowl that Meadowman dredged up – the one that rang like a bell – suggests the experimenters were boiling their concoctions …’

‘Could red lead in a basin that size produce enough fumes to kill four men?’

‘Yes. It is a pity anatomy is forbidden, because had I looked inside the bodies, we would have had answers days ago.’

‘No,’ said Michael, after reflecting for a moment. ‘Walkelate would not have tried to conceal what was essentially an accident. He would have reported it.’

‘And risked trouble for his beloved library? I think not!’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘As we have no better way forward, we shall explore your theory. The first step is to find Walkelate. I seriously doubt he would create wildfire to secure future funding for his library, but I will never sleep easy again if I am wrong and he sells it to the robbers.’

‘I hope we are not too late,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because I have an awful feeling it might feature in Browne’s “cataclysmic” event.’