Murder by the Book

Chapter 1

Cambridge, June 1358

The corpse was on its back, eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above, arms flung out to the sides and legs dangling in the river. It was a youth with fair curls, a shabby tunic that had once been stylish, and ink on his fingers. It was a wicked shame, thought Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, that his life had been cut so brutally short.

‘You can see why I called you,’ said Richard Tulyet. He was Cambridge’s Sheriff, a slightly built man, whose wispy beard and boyish looks led criminals to underestimate him; they never made the same mistake twice. ‘His clothes and the stains on his hands …’

‘You think he is a scholar,’ surmised Brother Michael, leaning on Bartholomew’s shoulder to peer down at the body. As Senior Proctor, it was his duty to determine whether the dead boy was a member of the University, and if so, to investigate what had happened. ‘I do not recognise him.’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His name is Adam, and he has just started to work for the University stationer. I treated him for a summer ague a few days ago.’

‘Did he mention any enemies?’ Michael shuddered. ‘His throat has been cut from ear to ear, so he clearly did something to annoy someone.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Tulyet’s expression was sober. ‘He is the third person to have been found with a slashed throat near the river over the last eight weeks or so.’

Bartholomew was horrified. ‘There is a killer on the loose? Who are his other victims?’

‘A beggar whose name no one knows, and one of my night-watchmen,’ replied the Sheriff.

‘I hope there is no trouble brewing between your town and our University,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘We have been living in comparative harmony for months now, and it occurred to me only yesterday that we are overdue for a spat.’

‘Not on our part,’ averred Tulyet. ‘Now that summer is here at last, we are more interested in tending our crops than in quarrelling with you – none of us want another winter of crippling shortages, such as we had last year. However, your scholars have been rather warlike of late.’

‘Over the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew, nodding. ‘The grace to establish it passed by a very slim margin, and the losers are still resentful. It has caused a bitter rift.’

‘A rift that is likely to widen even further today,’ predicted Michael gloomily. ‘The Chancellor has called another Convocation of Regents because we need to elect a new Junior Proctor, but the occasion will be used to reignite the library trouble, I am sure.’

‘Another Junior Proctor?’ asked Tulyet. ‘But that makes three this year alone, Brother! What happened to your last deputy?’

‘He resigned,’ replied the monk shortly. ‘Just because I told him to put down a quarrel between Maud’s Hostel and Bene’t College. The spat was over that wretched library, of course.’

‘It was a pitched battle, not a spat,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it involved weapons.’

‘So what?’ shrugged Michael. ‘He had ten stalwart beadles at his back, and I fail to understand why he was so reluctant to do his duty. I had the matter resolved in a few moments.’

During his years in office, the portly Benedictine theologian had amassed considerable power in the University, and it was common knowledge that he, not the Chancellor, made all the important decisions. He was thus a force to be reckoned with, and had restored the peace with no more than a few sharp words. No Junior Proctor could expect to do likewise, however, and the last incumbent had been so appalled by the expectation that he was to wade into such a vicious mêlée of waving knives and flailing fists that he had quit on the spot.

Unfortunately, it would not be easy to replace him. The work was poorly paid, often dangerous and had few perks. Moreover, Michael could be something of a tartar, impatient with those less intelligent than himself and intolerant of failure. No volunteers were likely to come forward at the Convocation, and the post would almost certainly remain vacant until some unsuspecting newcomer was persuaded to take it.

‘I heard about that fight,’ Tulyet was saying. ‘Several injuries and numerous arrests. However, Adam’s death will have nothing to do with those troubles. I believe he was killed because he, like the beggar and my guard, witnessed something he should not have done.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Smuggling – a perennial problem for any town near the Fens. Unfortunately, as soon as we catch one crew, another takes its place. There is a lot of money in the business, so the perpetrators tend to be protective of their interests, and will certainly kill to defend them.’

‘I hope Adam’s death will not prove to be too time-consuming,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘The new library is due to open a week tomorrow – on the Feast of Corpus Christi – and I have my hands full trying to keep the peace. Not to mention Coslaye.’

‘Coslaye?’ queried Tulyet.

‘The Principal of Batayl Hostel, who was very nearly killed when someone lobbed a book during the last Convocation. Murder might not have been the culprit’s intention, but it was a wicked thing to do regardless, and he needs to be caught.’

‘I will find out what happened to Adam,’ offered Tulyet. ‘You have helped me often enough in the past, and I am already investigating two similar crimes. I shall bring his killer to justice.’

Michael smiled gratefully. He and the Sheriff had always enjoyed a good relationship, and there was rarely any squabbling over jurisdiction. ‘But you must be busy, too, Dick. The town celebrates this particular festival in style, so you will have pageants to organise, miracle plays to commission …’

‘The Guild of Corpus Christi is managing all that this year,’ replied the Sheriff. ‘The only pressing matter I have at the moment is the King’s taxes – mostly collected and counted, but still requiring a mound of documentation before they can be sent to London. It is tedious work, and at the risk of sounding callous, hunting killers is a welcome diversion.’

‘I hope you catch them,’ said Bartholomew, folding the corpse’s hands across its chest and closing its eyes. ‘Because Adam was little more than a child – too young to die.’

‘You say he was a scribe?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew nodded, recalling what the lad had told him when they had met. ‘The University stationer, John Weasenham, hired him, because he can … he could write extremely fast.’

‘Weasenham produces anthologies of set texts called “exemplars”,’ elaborated Michael, when Tulyet’s puzzled expression showed that he did not understand why this should be important. ‘Which students then hire. They are in constant demand, so speedy scribes are essential.’

‘The Carmelite Priory has a scriptorium,’ said Tulyet. ‘Perhaps the friars there will help to produce these exemplars until Adam can be replaced.’

‘No – the Carmelites produce fine books and illustrated manuscripts,’ explained Michael with a tolerant smile at such ignorance. ‘They are wholly different undertakings. And if you want an analogy, compare that donkey over there with your best warhorse.’

‘Adam wanted to join the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew, sorry the youngster had not lived to realise his ambitions. ‘He told me that writing was his life.’

‘Then I had better set about finding out who killed him,’ said Tulyet quietly.

‘And I had better break the news to Weasenham,’ added Michael reluctantly. ‘I shall do it the moment the Convocation is over.’

Although it was not long past dawn, the sun had already burned away the early morning mist, and it promised to be a fine day. The sky was a clear, unbroken blue for the first time in weeks, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he and Michael left the riverbank. The ever-present stench of animal dung and human waste was dominant, but the sweeter scent of flowers and grass lay beneath them. Summer had arrived at last.

The previous winter had been long and hard, and although they had seen little snow, a series of fierce frosts had claimed a number of Bartholomew’s more vulnerable patients. There had been starvation, too, because the harvest had failed, and even the alms dispensed by the convents had not been enough to save some folk from an early grave. The town had celebrated with foolish abandon when the first blossoms had appeared on the trees, relieved beyond measure at this sign that the weather was finally beginning to relinquish its icy hold.

The quickest way to St Mary the Great from the river was via Cholles Lane, a narrow alley bounded on one side by the high wall that surrounded the Carmelite Priory, and a row of houses on the other. There were only three buildings of note. First was the shabby hostel run by Principal Coslaye, which he called Batayl; next was Newe Inn, the former tavern that was being converted into the Common Library; and the last was a pretty cottage occupied by Will Holm the surgeon, who had arrived two months before – on Easter Day – to set up practice in the town.

‘I see work is proceeding apace on Newe Inn,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as they walked. The sawing, hammering and chiselling had started the day after the Convocation, and its sponsor, Sir Eustace Dunning, had promised the craftsmen a handsome bonus if they finished before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Needless to say, the artisans were eager to oblige.

Michael scowled. ‘I still cannot believe that ridiculous grace was passed. And by only three votes, too! It will mean nothing but trouble.’

‘No – it will mean that all our scholars will have access to texts they might otherwise never see,’ countered Bartholomew. He had voted for the proposal, much to Michael’s disgust, and while he knew he would never persuade the monk to his point of view – or vice versa – they still argued about it every time they passed Newe Inn in each other’s company.

‘But Newe Inn is wholly unsuitable for the purpose.’ Michael stopped to glare at it. ‘It is the wrong size, the wrong shape, and most of its windows face north. It will be too dark to read most of the time, and too cold in winter. Moreover, Batayl Hostel and the Carmelites think it should be theirs.’

‘It is Sir Eustace Dunning’s property. He can give it to whoever he likes.’

‘No good will come of it,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘And I still cannot believe that you supported its foundation. I thought I had made it clear that I was against it, and that I expected all the Regents from my own College to vote accordingly.’

‘A lot of good will come of it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who had resented being ordered to act against his beliefs. ‘I am tired of running all over the University every time I want to consult a text – and of hoping that its owner will deign to let me see it. A Common Library will mean they are all stored in one place, and will thus be available to everyone.’

‘That is idealistic claptrap! First, this collection will be open to every member of our studium generale, which means the demand on its resources will be enormous. You may never see the books you want because others will get to them first.’

‘But at least those in the poorer foundations will have a chance to–’

‘And second, there is the issue of benefactions. Our College rarely buys books, because they are too expensive – most have been bequeathed to us. But a central repository will be more attractive to donors, and they will favour it in their wills. What will become of Michaelhouse?’

‘We will use the Common Library.’

‘You are missing the point!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘I do not refer to the academic value of books, but to their actual value. We sold our spare copy of Holcot’s Postillae earlier this year, and it raised enough money to keep us in bread for a month. Ergo, they are a vital asset, and your Common Library will deprive us of it. And we are not rich as it is.’

‘Books are not a commodity, Brother, to be bought and sold like–’

‘Of course they are a commodity! Even Deynman our Librarian, who is as fanatical about his charges as a mother hen with chicks, agreed that it was right to let the Holcot go.’

Bartholomew had no desire to debate the matter further. He changed the subject, and began to talk about the experiments he was conducting with his medical colleagues instead. They were trying to develop fuel for a lamp that would burn at a constant and steady rate, which they hoped would let them see what they were doing when patients summoned them at night.

‘We added myrrh yesterday,’ he said, blithely unaware that Michael was not very interested. The monk might have been, had the medici made progress occasionally, but they were no further towards their goal than they had been when the project had started some months earlier.

‘Your colleagues are an unprepossessing crowd,’ Michael said, brusque because the previous discussion had reminded him that he was still sulking over the fact that his closest friend had defied him at the Convocation. ‘Gyseburne’s obsession with urine is sinister; Rougham is arrogant; Meryfeld is stupid; and Vale is sly.’

‘And our new surgeon – Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, rather taken aback by the monk’s vehemence. ‘Do you dislike him, too?’

‘Yes. Although, his arrival has meant that you no longer perform those nasty techniques yourself, which is not a bad thing.’

Bartholomew said nothing. He had saved a number of patients with surgery, but it was the domain of barber-surgeons, and virtually everyone disapproved of his unconventional talent for it. He started to change the subject a second time, but they had arrived at St Mary the Great, where the Convocation was about to begin.

Bartholomew and Michael walked into the church to find it full. Chancellor Tynkell heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the monk. The election of a Junior Proctor was not a contentious piece of business, but most of those present were actually there to reiterate their opinions of the Common Library, and he knew he would be unable to keep the peace once the more rabid of the Regents began to hold forth.

‘I bid you all welcome,’ he said nervously to the assembly, after he had intoned a rambling and somewhat incoherent opening prayer that betrayed the depth of his unease. ‘We are here to see about the election of another Junior–’

‘I am here to express my displeasure about this wretched library,’ cut in Teversham hotly. His Bene’t colleagues were at his shoulder, nodding vehement agreement. ‘Work is proceeding far too fast, and it is unseemly.’

‘We are trying to finish by Corpus Christi,’ explained William Walkelate, the erudite, amiable architect from King’s Hall, who had been given the task of transforming Newe Inn from run-down tavern to functional library. The appointment had made him unpopular with his colleagues, however – King’s Hall was one of the project’s fiercest detractors. ‘Dunning has set his heart on–’

‘It is all wrong,’ snapped Teversham. ‘The wealthier foundations, such as my own, already have repositories for books, and so do the convents. We do not need another.’

‘But what about those scholars who are not members of rich Colleges or religious houses?’ asked Walkelate with quiet reason. ‘It is all but impossible for them to gain access to books, and a Common Library will transform their lives.’

‘I do not care about them,’ spat Teversham. ‘I care about what will happen to my College now that this ridiculous grace has been passed – namely donors giving their collections to it, and Bene’t being overlooked. Then we shall be impoverished!’

There was a rumble of agreement from the Colleges and convents, which tended to be well endowed with reading matter, and cries of ‘shame!’ from the hostels, which were not.

‘If Bene’t finds itself short of books, it can use the Common Library like everyone else,’ said a philosopher named Sawtre, once the hubbub had died down. He was also from King’s Hall, and disbelieving glances were exchanged between his colleagues at this disloyal remark. ‘And quite rightly. As matters stand, the hostels are at a serious disadvantage, and it is hardly fair.’

‘What does fairness have to do with anything?’ asked Teversham, genuinely puzzled. ‘It is the natural order of things that some of us have access to books, and some do not. We have managed without a general library for hundreds of years, so why foist one on us now?’

There was another growl of approval from the Colleges and convents, while the Regents from the hostels clamoured their objections.

‘Has our University existed for hundreds of years?’ asked Chancellor Tynkell, more to himself than to the assembly. ‘I thought it was established during the tenth year of King John, which makes it roughly a hundred and fifty–’

‘Treachery!’ shrieked Teversham. ‘It was founded by King Arthur, and to say otherwise means that Oxford is older than us and therefore superior. And none of us believe that!’

There was a chorus of unanimous appreciation: on this point, everyone was agreed.

‘Quite so,’ said Michael. ‘Now let us return to the matter in hand. We must appoint a Junior Proctor as soon as possible, because I shall need help at Corpus Christi, and–’

‘You only need help because of this vile library,’ said Teversham bitterly. ‘Allowing a townsman to come along and tell us that we should have one is a dangerous precedent, and I advise you to bring an end to the scheme while you can.’

‘We voted, and the grace was passed,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I was not very pleased, either, but we are bound by the decision, and there is no more we can do.’

‘That ballot was tainted,’ stated Coslaye, his stentorian bellow cutting through the frenzy of objections and cheers. ‘I was nearly murdered after it was taken, so I demand another.’

Everyone had assumed that Coslaye would die when he had been injured during the last Convocation, but Bartholomew had relieved the pressure on his brain by drilling holes in his skull. Now, six weeks later, the only visible evidence of his brush with death was the fact that the hair on one side of his head was shorter than the other, on account of it being shaved off. Unfortunately for Bartholomew, his success with what had been widely viewed as a hopeless case still did not alter the fact that physicians were not supposed to demean themselves with surgery, and his colleagues, medical and lay alike, roundly condemned him for what he had done.

‘Oh,’ said Tynkell, swallowing uncomfortably. ‘I see your point. Well … I suppose …’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly, before the Chancellor could agree to something untenable. ‘It is undemocratic to demand another poll because you do not like the result of the first. The losers must accept the will of the majority.’

‘Three votes is not a majority,’ argued Coslaye. ‘It means we are split down the middle. Ergo, we should give the matter further consideration.’

‘No,’ said Michael again, struggling to make himself heard over the rising clamour of voices. ‘The vote must stand. Our statutes are quite clear on this point.’

‘But this horrible library will be a cuckoo in our midst,’ wailed Teversham. ‘A cuckoo that will steal books from the Colleges, and that will reside in a house that Dunning had already pledged to two other foundations.’

‘It will not be a cuckoo,’ argued Walkelate, offended. ‘It will be a magnificent eagle, one that will allow our scholars – all our scholars – to soar into the lofty firmament of learning.’

‘Eagles are evil predators that prey on the helpless,’ flashed Teversham. ‘And so is anyone who supports this wicked notion.’

‘I agree,’ bawled Coslaye. ‘Dunning’s offer should have been rejected.’

‘But you run a hostel, Coslaye,’ Sawtre pointed out reproachfully. ‘You should support a scheme that will give your scholars the same access to books as College men.’

‘My lads would rather be bookless than spend another winter in cramped misery,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘We need that building.’

‘It was promised to us,’ said Prior Etone of the Carmelites sharply. ‘No matter what Dunning claims now. And its loss is a bitter blow, because we had plans for it.’

‘This nasty library has caused all manner of strife among us,’ interjected Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall sadly. He was a physician, unattractive of countenance and character. ‘It is not just Colleges and hostels fighting each other – it is worse. There are divisions within foundations, too, and they are tearing us apart. I am ashamed to admit that even Gonville has a traitor.’

‘One who has dared not show his face here today,’ added another Gonville scholar sourly. ‘Namely Roger Vale, our second Master of Medicine.’

‘Vale is not a traitor,’ said Sawtre firmly. ‘He just likes the idea of a Common Library. As do I.’

‘It is the Devil’s work,’ declared Thomas Riborowe, who ran the Carmelites’ scriptorium. He was a skeletally thin specimen with a cadaverous pallor. ‘We should all unite against Satan’s evil designs, and vote to repeal the grace with immediate effect.’

‘You cannot really believe that!’ cried Sawtre over the resulting hubbub. ‘The only reason you are able to read the tomes you love so dearly is because your priory owns them. Surely, others deserve that right, too?’

‘And they can have it – if they take holy orders and become friars,’ screeched Riborowe.

‘Enough!’ roared Michael, cutting through the furious squabble that followed. ‘We did not come here to bicker about a grace that has already been passed. We came to discuss my new Junior Proctor. Are there any volunteers?’

Suddenly, the church went quiet, and Bartholomew noted with amusement that some Regents were holding their breath, afraid to move lest they attracted unwanted attention. Others stared fixedly at the floor or the ceiling, unwilling to risk catching Michael’s eye. When Tynkell declared an end to the gathering a short while later, there was a concerted dash towards the door, still in total silence. Outside, however, the debate about the library continued in venomous brays.

‘I was not expecting a plethora of offers,’ said Michael ruefully, watching the last of the Regents jostling through the door. ‘But it is disappointing when not one colleague is prepared to help me. And if there had been a willing candidate, his first duty would have been to visit Weasenham and break the news about Adam. I confess, it is not a task I relish.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, glad it was not his responsibility.

A crafty look came into Michael’s eye. ‘It will be a terrible shock, and Weasenham’s scribes may need the services of a physician. You must come with me.’

The stationer’s premises occupied a strategic spot on the High Street, and was where scholars and scribes went to purchase the supplies they needed for their work – pens, ink, glue, parchment and vellum, books and, of course, exemplars. It stood near All Saints-in-the-Jewry, conveniently close to King’s Hall, where the University’s wealthiest academics lived, and was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham and his household lived on the upper floor, while the lower one was dedicated to business.

Bartholomew had always liked the place, with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink and the rich scent of new parchment, although he was less keen on its owner. Weasenham, a thin, rodent-faced man with long, oily hair, was an unrepentant gossip, and could always be trusted to turn any innocent incident into scurrilous rumour.

The shop was busy, despite the early hour, which explained why he was one of the richest men in the town. Two Fellows from Bene’t College were discussing whether to purchase a second copy of Gratian’s Decretum, watched enviously by a gaggle of scholars from Batayl Hostel who could not afford their first. A group of friars was admiring a new shipment of psalters, and students clamoured at Weasenham’s assistants for the exemplars they needed for the next stage of their studies.

The stationer himself was talking to William Walkelate, the King’s Hall architect.

‘We are doing very well,’ Walkelate was saying happily. ‘There is no reason why we should not be ready by next Thursday. Dunning will be delighted, because he has set his heart on a grand opening at Corpus Christi. I do not blame him – it is one of our greatest religious festivals, and will be an auspicious start for his foundation.’

Weasenham smiled, eyes bright with greed. ‘I shall be busier than ever once our scholars sample the many tracts stored there, and commissions for exemplars will be so numerous that I do not know how we shall cope. Thank God for Adam and his lightning pen!’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

‘We need to talk to you, Weasenham,’ said Michael, once Walkelate had collected his supplies and left the shop, beaming affably at everyone he passed. The poorer scholars smiled back, appreciative of his labours. The wealthier ones glared, although Walkelate did not seem to notice; like many academics, he was not very sensitive to atmospheres.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ whispered Weasenham, glancing around furtively in the way he always did when he was about to impart something that he should probably have kept to himself. ‘The Common Library is unlikely to open on time. Walkelate just told me.’

Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘But he just said it would. I heard him.’

‘He did, but he has his doubts – I could see them in his face.’ Weasenham winked conspiratorially. ‘And have you heard about Dunning’s youngest daughter? She is my wife’s sister as you know. Well, it transpires that she is to marry Holm, the town’s new surgeon.’

‘Perhaps we could go somewhere private,’ suggested Michael, while Bartholomew wondered how the stationer contrived to make even the most innocuous of events sound indecently salacious. ‘We have news.’

‘Certainly,’ said Weasenham, delighted. ‘I like news. Come. We shall talk in the back room.’

The ‘back room’ was a spacious chamber with large windows. There were ten desks for writing, although only seven were occupied. Two scriveners were copying theological tracts, while the remainder were preparing an exemplar comprising a selection of work by Aristotle.

‘We are short-handed this morning,’ said Weasenham, gesturing to the empty tables. ‘The London brothers are late, and so is Adam. It is unlike Adam to be tardy, because he is very keen.’

‘And the London brothers are not?’ asked Michael, more to postpone his unpleasant duty than because he really wanted to know.

Weasenham leaned forward with a spiteful leer. ‘They like to malinger.’

‘That is unfair,’ objected one of the scribes. He was a handsome man, perhaps thirty years old, with jet black hair that fell in curls around his face. ‘The brothers do sometimes arrive late, but they always work long after the rest of us have gone home.’

‘This is Bonabes, my Exemplarius,’ said Weasenham to Bartholomew and Michael. As exemplars were studied very closely by the students who hired them, it was vital that they were error-free, and to ensure a consistently high standard, the work was checked by a senior scribe; Weasenham always referred to his as the Exemplarius. ‘He is right to defend the people under his care. However–’ Here he gave Bonabes a sharp glare ‘–he should not feel compelled to do it over the just criticism of his employer.’

‘I speak the truth,’ said Bonabes firmly. ‘The Londons are loyal and conscientious workers. They are also a driving force in our experiments to produce paper.’

‘Paper?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘It is a comparatively new material made from rags,’ explained Bonabes. ‘If we can perfect its manufacture, everyone will benefit, because it will be far cheaper than parchment.’

‘I visited a paper mill in France once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It stank, and polluted the local drinking water.’

‘Perhaps so, but we cannot allow that to interfere with progress,’ said Weasenham. He lowered his voice, eyes alight with malice. ‘Did you know that the London brothers are members of Batayl Hostel? I cannot imagine what possessed them to choose that disreputable foundation and–’

‘They enrolled because they are interested in alchemy and Batayl owns two books on the subject,’ interrupted Bonabes irritably. The other scribes also looked annoyed by the stationer’s disparaging remarks. ‘There is nothing unsavoury about the association.’

‘If you say so,’ sniffed Weasenham, making it clear that he would think what he liked. He turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Now what did you want to tell me?’

‘I am afraid we bring bad news.’ Michael took a deep breath to steel himself. ‘Adam is dead. The Sheriff’s men found him by the river this morning.’

There was a crash as Bonabes knocked over an inkwell, his face white with horror. Weasenham gripped a table for support, and the other scriveners clamoured their disbelief.

‘No!’ whispered Bonabes. ‘You are mistaken. Adam cannot be dead!’

The noise brought Weasenham’s wife running. He had recently remarried, and it was no surprise that he had opted for a lady who matched his wealth and social standing. Ruth Dunning, the elder of Sir Eustace’s two daughters, was a pretty woman with dark hair and arresting eyes.

‘What is the matter?’ she cried, bending down to mop up the mess Bonabes had made. ‘Help me, quickly, or this will stain.’

‘Never mind the floor,’ said Weasenham shakily. ‘Brother Michael has news.’

Michael told what little he knew, then tried to answer the distraught questions that followed. Bonabes was the most distressed, because he and Adam had started to work for Weasenham at the same time, and the older man had harboured a fatherly affection for the eager youngster. Ruth put a compassionate hand on his arm while he wept.

‘Bonabes is French,’ whispered Weasenham, to explain the Exemplarius’s unmanly display. ‘But I still think I must be dreaming. Adam! How can this be true?’

‘The Sheriff will visit you soon,’ said Michael. ‘When he comes, please tell him everything you can about Adam’s last movements. It may help him catch the killer.’

‘Adam said he would come in early today, to help finish the Aristotle,’ sobbed Bonabes. ‘I was surprised when he failed to appear, and I wish to God I had gone to look for him. I might have been able to save …’ He could not finish.

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘His body was cold, and I suspect he died yesterday, not this morning.’

‘The rest of us stayed here all last night, working,’ said Ruth. ‘The demand for exemplars is very high at the moment, you see. But Adam is still recovering from his summer ague, so we sent him home when it grew dark, although he objected to being singled out for favoured treatment.’

‘Oh, no!’ breathed Bonabes, ashen-faced. ‘Please do not say that is why he died – because we sent him out at dusk, thinking to be kind.’

It was highly likely, but neither Michael nor Bartholomew wanted to add to their anguish by saying so. Michael shook his head reassuringly, while Bartholomew, never good at prevaricating, stared at his feet. When the scribes were calmer, the monk resumed his questioning.

‘None of you left?’ he asked, looking at each in turn. ‘Not even for a moment?’

‘No,’ replied Weasenham. ‘We were too busy. So, if your question aims to determine whether any of us killed him, you are barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Who did this terrible thing?’ demanded Bonabes, grief giving way to anger. ‘Adam did not have an enemy in the world – he was a polite, quiet lad. And he was like a son to me …’

‘Dick Tulyet believes smugglers might be to blame,’ replied Michael.

‘Smugglers,’ spat Weasenham. ‘I hate them! They flood the town with untaxed supplies that make mine seem expensive. And now Adam … How could they? He was just a child!’

Bartholomew and Michael left them to their mourning, and stepped into the High Street. The day was getting warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. Neither was cheered by the sight, though, after their grim work. Wordlessly, they started to walk to Michaelhouse, but stopped when they saw Bartholomew’s book-bearer hurrying towards them.

‘Here comes trouble,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘I can see in his face that something awful has happened.’

Cynric had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, and the physician had lost count of the times they had saved each other’s lives. The Welshman was an experienced warrior, and also the most superstitious man in Cambridge.

‘There has been a death,’ reported Cynric tersely. ‘In Newe Inn’s garden.’

‘Newe Inn?’ asked Michael. ‘But we passed it not long ago. Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ replied Cynric. ‘The message comes from Principal Coslaye. He says the fellow is quite dead, so there is no need to hurry, but he would appreciate you arriving before this evening, because he and his scholars want to see a mystery play in the Market Square.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, eyebrows raised. ‘Then we had better oblige.’

Besides teaching medicine and trying to serve a list of patients that was far too long for one man, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any person breathing his last on University property. Newe Inn fell firmly under his jurisdiction, whether the dead man transpired to be scholar or townsman, so he turned and followed Michael back to Cholles Lane.

When they arrived, he took a moment to view Newe Inn from the outside, to assess whether the monk was right to say it was unsuitable for a library. He supposed its round-headed windows were on the narrow side, while he could attest from personal experience that stone buildings were chilly in winter – he lived in one himself, and could not recall ever being as cold as he had been in February and March. Yet these seemed minor issues compared to the advantages the place would confer when it was finished.

He was about to enter, when voices farther up the lane made him glance around – Prior Etone was leading his friars home after a lengthy post-Convocation gripe with the Dominicans. The Carmelites were a powerful force in Cambridge, with about fifty brothers and an army of laymen and servants. Most were regarding Bartholomew rather coolly.

‘You were wrong to vote for that library, Matthew,’ called Etone. ‘It is not a good idea to have one of those in our studium generale.’

‘Especially as it is to be housed in Newe Inn,’ added the skeletal Riborowe. ‘That building was promised to us, and you had no right to support a scheme that saw us dispossessed.’

‘I told him all that before the Convocation,’ Michael called back before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he did not listen – thinking about urine and leeches, probably.’

At that moment, a bell chimed inside the convent to tell the friars that a light meal was available in the refectory, and most of them trooped off to enjoy it, but Prior Etone crossed the lane to continue berating Bartholomew. He was accompanied by Riborowe and a tiny, sparrow-like man named Jorz, with a nose like a stubby beak.

‘Wait, Matt,’ ordered Michael, as Bartholomew edged towards Newe Inn’s door, unwilling to be rebuked yet again for doing what he had felt was right. ‘The Carmelites are still seriously piqued over the Common Library, and a few moments smoothing ruffled feathers will not go amiss.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You are not the one about to be scolded like an errant schoolboy.’

‘That stupid grace passed by three votes,’ said Riborowe, his thin face flushed with irritation. ‘Three! If you and one other Regent had shown a shred of decency, it would have been defeated.’

‘Bartholomew is not the only one who betrayed us,’ chirped Jorz. ‘Others voted contrary to orders, too. They include Vale of Gonville Hall; the London brothers from the stationer’s shop; Sawtre and Walkelate from King’s Hall; and, I am ashamed to say, Northwood from our own Order. All are traitorous wretches who should be made to pay.’

‘They should,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘But most will have realised the folly of their ways by now, so you must call another Convocation, Brother. I imagine the result will be very different next time. How about July? That is a lovely month for making decisions.’

Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘Most hostels close during July. Scholars from the Colleges and the religious Orders will still be here, but the others will have gone home.’

‘Will they really?’ asked Riborowe, feigning surprise. ‘What a pity that their voices will not be heard, then. Still, I suppose that is democracy for you.’

‘All our members should have equal access to books,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘And as a University, we have a moral obligation to see that they do.’

‘These are dangerous principles, Matthew,’ warned Etone. ‘I cannot say I approve.’

‘They are not dangerous principles,’ came a voice from behind them. Sawtre, the gentle philosopher from King’s Hall, had overheard the remark as he was passing, and had stopped to join the debate. He was a clever, likeable man with a shiny bald head. ‘They are enlightened principles.’

‘Enlightened is another word for heretical,’ countered Riborowe. ‘And your opinion counts for nothing anyway, because you are another dissenter.’

Sawtre smiled with kindly patience, unruffled by the friar’s hostility. ‘And how does having a mind of my own negate my opinion, exactly?’

Riborowe knew he was unlikely to win a battle of logic with a scholar of Sawtre’s standing, so he continued to rail at Bartholomew instead. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson about unorthodoxy by now. It is said in the town that you are a warlock.’

Bartholomew winced. He did not need reminding that his medical successes had resulted in a tale that said a pact with the Devil was responsible. His patients – mostly the town’s poor – did not care as long as he made them better, but he disliked the reputation he had acquired. It was especially galling as he had been to some trouble to avoid controversy over the last few years, keeping his ideas and theories to himself, and only practising surgery as a last resort.

‘He is not a warlock,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And as most of you White Friars are his patients, I am astonished to hear such remarks from your lips.’

‘You are right,’ said Prior Etone, after a brief moment of contemplation. ‘Matthew is the only medicus who brings relief to my chilblains. Where would I be if he took umbrage and declined to tend me? So I hereby retract my objection to his foolish opinions about libraries.’

‘There are other medici in Cambridge,’ said Riborowe sullenly. ‘And our Order should not use one who communes with the Devil, anyway. No matter how good he is with chilblains.’

‘Perhaps not, but I would not recommend employing Vale in his place,’ said Jorz fervently. ‘He is more interested in inventing a universal cure-all than in treating real patients. Did I tell you that I showed him my haemorrhoids, and he laughed?’

‘Who first mooted the idea of having a Common Library?’ asked Etone, in the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘I cannot imagine Dunning coming up with it on his own.’

‘It was Chancellor Tynkell,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He said he wanted to do something “worthwhile” before he retires from office next year.’

‘Then you must bear some responsibility for the situation, Brother,’ said Riborowe nastily. ‘Of course Tynkell will be keen to be remembered as something other than your puppet!’

‘If he were my puppet, we would not be having this discussion,’ growled Michael, ‘because a grace to found a Common Library would never have been proposed in the first place. Tynkell arranged the whole thing slyly, without my knowledge. I was outraged when I found out that he had been making arrangements behind my back.’

‘I am sure you did your best to thwart it,’ said Etone kindly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Jorz. ‘It is not your fault that you were betrayed by your closest friend and other vipers like him. Speaking of vipers, there seems to be a profusion of them this year. We killed three in our grounds only yesterday.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Why? They are harmless if left alone.’

Jorz regarded him askance, while Riborowe crossed himself. ‘You defend serpents? The beasts whose forked tongues caused our expulsion from the Garden of Eden? That is heresy!’

Sawtre smiled rather patronisingly. ‘You have overlooked the concept of free will, Jorz. Shall we debate the matter? I happen to be free for the next five or six hours and–’

‘We should go home, or there will be nothing left to eat,’ snapped Jorz, turning abruptly and walking away before the philosopher, who was known to be wordy, could claim the rest of his day. Riborowe followed, although not before treating Bartholomew to a final glower.

‘My apologies,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘They have been trying to invent a fast-drying ink, and it is weariness that renders them testy. They are usually perfectly amiable.’

‘You see, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Etone and Sawtre had gone. ‘Your silly library is causing all manner of dissent among our members. But we had better visit this corpse before any more of the day is lost.’

Bartholomew had not been inside Newe Inn since it had ceased to be a tavern, and looked around with interest as he entered. It was cool, dark and smaller than might have been expected from the street, because, in typical Norman fashion, its walls were hugely thick. It was simple in design: the ground floor comprised a large, low-ceilinged basement that would be used for storage, while the upper floor had two chambers where the precious books would be kept.

As the storeroom was deserted, Michael aimed for the stairs, to look for someone who could tell them why they had been summoned. Cynric was at his heels, while Bartholomew lagged behind, reluctantly acknowledging to himself that perhaps Newe Inn was unsuitable for a library – it was gloomy, cool even on a warm summer day, and definitely damp.

‘Personally, I suspect Dunning is glad to be rid of this place,’ muttered Cynric disparagingly. ‘Donating it to the University brings a princely number of masses for his soul when he is dead and a free tomb in St Mary the Great. He has done well out of the bargain.’

They arrived at the upper chambers to find them in a flurry of activity. Walkelate could have shoved up a few shelves and been done with it, but he had taken his assignment seriously, and the result was a masterpiece. The walls were panelled in light beech, and the bookcases were of different heights and depths to accommodate variation in the size of the tomes they would hold. They were all exquisitely carved with classical and biblical images.

When he saw he had visitors, the architect came to greet them.

‘Welcome,’ he cried jovially. ‘I know we are all sawdust and muddle at the moment, but the chaos is superficial. The main work is finished, and it is just details now. We shall certainly be ready by Corpus Christi.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘It is a–’

‘But you have not been here before,’ interrupted Walkelate, looking at Bartholomew and beaming widely at the prospect of a new admirer. ‘Allow me to show you around.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael quickly. ‘We were told there is a corpse to inspect.’

‘A corpse?’ echoed Walkelate, startled. ‘There is no cadaver here, I assure you!’ He turned eagerly back to Bartholomew. ‘Like all decent libraries, ours will be in two sections. The room in which we are standing holds the libri distribuendi – duplicates, cheaper volumes and exemplars. These may be lent to scholars, to take home.’

‘And the libri concatenati?’ asked Bartholomew.

Walkelate led the way to the adjoining chamber. It was larger than the first, and finer, with specially designed carrels and lecterns for reading. ‘As you know, the libri concatenati are expensive or popular books. They will be chained to the walls or to lecterns, and will not be removed from the building.’

‘Our library will be magnificent,’ said Bartholomew warmly, his reservations about the building’s suitability quite vanished. He pointed to a huge rough chest in the middle of the room, which stood in a sea of wood shavings. ‘Although I assume that will not be staying?’

‘That is a cista exemplarium – a box for storing spare exemplars – and will eventually live in the basement. However, for now, it provides a convenient work table.’

To prove his point, he sat next to it. On the cista was a hefty bust of Aristotle, meticulously carved in oak, which he picked up and began to buff lovingly.

‘This will be mounted atop the first bookcase our scholars will see upon entering,’ he explained. ‘To welcome them to this sacred hall of learning.’

‘I am surprised you accepted Dunning’s invitation to design this place,’ remarked Michael. ‘Your College is violently opposed to the scheme, and King’s Hall has always been rather keen on unity.’

‘I know,’ said Walkelate with a sigh. ‘They remind me of my dissension at every meal.’

‘Then why did you do it?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. His own colleagues were still peeved with him for the way he had voted, and he could not imagine what it would be like for Walkelate, who had not only supported the venture, but was its architect, too.

‘Because I firmly believe that they will appreciate its benefits in time,’ replied Walkelate. ‘And that they will come to love it. Besides, this project represented a challenge, and I like my skills to be tested.’

‘You have worked very hard,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, a grand opening during Corpus Christi will be a red rag to a bull. A discreet, quiet ceremony the week after would be far more suitable. I do not suppose you might consider …’

‘I cannot delay the work to suit you, Brother,’ said Walkelate reproachfully. ‘Dunning has offered the craftsmen a substantial bonus if they finish on time, and it would be cruel to deprive them of such a prize after all their labours.’

He smiled as two men walked into the room, laden down with wood and buckets of nails. The first man, who was enormous, carried the bulk of the supplies. He looked like a wrestler, and his thick yellow hair was tied in a tail at the back of his head. The second was smaller, with sad eyes and a wart on the side of his nose. Both looked exhausted, and when they deposited their materials on the cista, they heaved weary sighs.

‘This is Kente,’ said Walkelate, indicating the smaller of the pair. ‘He is responsible for all the carving, while Frevill here built the shelves.’

‘Another week,’ said Kente, bending slowly to pick up a hammer. ‘Then we shall be finished, and I will sleep for a month. I cannot recall ever working so hard!’

‘Nor I,’ growled Frevill. ‘But the bonus will be worth the pre-dawn starts and the late finishes. My father says it will eliminate all the debt our family has incurred this winter.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Dunning would be able to pay what he had promised, because it was clear that the artisans had given everything they had to meet his deadline.

He was about to compliment Kente and Frevill on their achievement when there was another clatter of footsteps on the stairs. A man stood in the doorway, hands on hips, as he regarded Michael with considerable anger.

‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded in a powerful West Country burr. He was short, although he carried himself as though he were taller, and had straight, grey-brown hair. His name was Robert Browne, and he was a teacher at Batayl Hostel. Bartholomew braced himself for some unpleasantness – Browne was not one of the University’s more congenial members.

Michael regarded Browne in surprise. ‘Why should I not be here?’

‘Because your duties lie in Newe Inn’s garden,’ snarled Browne. ‘Not in its damned library.’

‘The corpse,’ surmised Michael. ‘So there is one after all. However, your Principal said there was no immediate hurry, and–’

‘Coslaye is not the one obliged to loiter next to it until the Senior Proctor deigns to appear,’ snapped Browne angrily. ‘And he may not consider murder urgent, but I do.’

‘Murder?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘How do you–’

‘If you can bear to bring an end to your sightseeing,’ replied Browne waspishly, ‘you may come and see for yourself.’

It had been several years since anyone had tended Newe Inn’s grounds and they screamed of neglect and decay. Some weeds were taller than Bartholomew, who was not a short man, while nettles choked what had once been vegetable beds, and the grass was thigh-high. The tavern must have been leased to a long succession of negligent landlords, and he wondered whether Cynric was right to say that Dunning was glad to be rid of the responsibility it would pose.

‘Will anything be done to tame this wilderness before the library opens?’ he asked, trying to fight his way free of a bramble with thorns like talons. It retaliated by ripping his shirt. ‘It is downright dangerous!’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric, kicking viciously at a huge thistle.

‘Dunning declined to renovate the house and clear the garden,’ explained Michael, following Browne along a barely discernible path, which ran by the side of the teetering wall that divided Newe Inn from neighbouring Batayl. ‘So Tynkell decided to leave the grounds until next year. Doubtless he will use them to instigate some other foolish plan to see himself immortalised.’

Eventually, they arrived at a large pond where past owners had bred carp and trout. It reeked, although the stench was partly masked by a fragrantly scented patch of lily of the valley to one side, a bright jewel of beauty in a place that was otherwise unsightly. Floating in the middle of the pond, face-down and with an arrow protruding from its back, was the body.

‘Now can you see why I had the audacity to suggest murder?’ asked Browne archly. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. He had never liked the physician, preferring staid traditionalists to those who favoured new ideas. ‘You do not need a Corpse Examiner to tell you that he did not do that to himself.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Michael.

‘His face is in the water and his clothes are black with mud,’ replied Browne tartly. ‘So how am I supposed to know that? However, I can tell you that he is not supposed to be here.’

‘Obviously,’ muttered Cynric. ‘Cadavers bobbing about in fish ponds is hardly right.’

Browne’s lips compressed into a thin line. ‘I meant that no one is supposed to frequent these grounds. They are University property and therefore private.’

Michael regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Yes, they are, which means you should not have been here, either, yet you were the one to raise the alarm. What were you doing?’

Browne looked decidedly furtive. ‘I occasionally slip over the wall to ensure all is well. It is unwise to leave a place unattended too long, and I take my neighbourly responsibilities seriously.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael coolly. ‘However, it does not explain why you were here, at this pond. It is far beyond benefiting from philanthropic inspections.’

Browne was defiant. ‘Times are hard, especially for a poor foundation like ours, and there are fish in this pool. You, from rich old Michaelhouse, will not know what it is like to be hungry.’

Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric said nothing, but the truth was that their College was not wealthy at all, and they understood all too well what it was like to exist on meagre rations. They possessed several fine buildings, along with land that kept them supplied with vegetables, but their roofs leaked, they were crippled with debt, and a fire had not burned in the hearth for weeks. Not even a windfall resulting from a recent journey to York had helped them for long.

‘So you are a poacher,’ surmised Michael, fixing Browne with an icy glare. ‘How often do you raid University property, exactly?’

‘Bagging the occasional carp hardly makes me a poacher,’ objected Browne indignantly, although Bartholomew was sure the law would not agree.

‘Was the corpse here yesterday?’ snapped Michael impatiently.

‘If so, I would have reported it then,’ Browne shot back, then added defensively, ‘Not that I visit every day, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘We need to tug him out. I am not sure how, though – he is some distance from the bank.’

Bartholomew fashioned a grappling hook by tying one of his surgical implements on to a piece of twine. Then he flung it towards the body, aiming to snag it and draw it across to him. Unfortunately, it was caught on something below the surface, and the makeshift device was not strong enough to let him pull it free.

‘You had better wade in after him,’ said Michael. ‘Or we shall be here all day.’

‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘My remit is to tell you how he died, not go paddling about in dirty ponds while you stand by and make unhelpful suggestions.’

‘I am not going,’ said Cynric firmly, when the monk turned to him. He crossed himself with one hand, while the other gripped a couple of the talismans that hung around his neck. ‘This pool is infested with an evil kind of faerie.’

‘Surely, you have a charm to protect you?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘You seem to be wearing at least four, not to mention pilgrim tokens and a holy relic. No one in Cambridge is better protected from wicked spirits than you.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric comfortably. ‘But I am still not going in that pond.’

‘Nor am I, lest you think to ask,’ said Browne. ‘It is not my responsibility, either.’

‘And I cannot swim,’ added Michael. He grinned rather triumphantly at Bartholomew. ‘So either you must do it, or we shall have to wait until a beadle deigns to arrive.’

As it was nearing the date when his students would take their final disputations, and he was keen to return to College to make sure they were hard at work, Bartholomew sat down and began to untie his boots. Michael was right: it might be some time before a beadle – one of the army of men he hired to keep unruly scholars under control – put in an appearance, because they were still busy ensuring that no trouble was bubbling after the Convocation.

‘It will not take a moment,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Then you can return to terrorising your pupils, and I can continue to soothe ragged tempers over this library. You know what happened the last time our Colleges and hostels took against each other.’

Bartholomew was unlikely to forget the events of the previous February, when a ruthless killer had fanned the flames of dissent between the University’s warring factions. He stood and put one foot in the water, but it was bone-chillingly cold – far more so than he had expected – and he withdrew it hastily.

‘Just jump,’ advised Michael. ‘It will be unpleasant for an instant, but then all you have to do is wade a few steps, grab the corpse and haul it back to us.’

‘There is a platform just under the surface,’ supplied Browne, rather more helpfully. ‘Built to allow servants to walk out and catch the fish with nets. You can see it if you look carefully. Use that.’

Bartholomew saw there was indeed a structure beneath the water. It was made from old planks, and was black with age and slime. He supposed it would normally be exposed, but recent rains meant the water level was higher than usual. He stepped on to it, wincing at the frigid temperature a second time, and was relieved to find it only reached mid-calf. Gingerly, he moved along it, wondering just how old the planks were, and whether they were stable. The thought had no sooner formed in his mind when he felt them move. He froze in alarm.

‘Stop,’ said Cynric urgently. ‘Come back, and I will–’

The rest of his sentence was lost under a tearing groan. Bartholomew flailed his arms in a desperate effort to keep his balance, but the wood crumbled beneath his feet, and into the pond he went. It was so cold after the warmth of the day that he gasped involuntarily, inhaling water that made him choke. He struck out for the bank, but a piece of planking landed on him and forced him beneath the surface. There, looming in the darkness, was a dead face. Startled, he gulped a second time, swallowing yet more water.

‘You did not bring the body,’ said Browne, grinning his amusement as the physician scrambled up the bank, dripping and disgusted. ‘You will have to go back for it.’

‘I saw it under the water.’ Bartholomew coughed, and Cynric pounded him on the back. ‘Your beadles will have to trawl for it, Brother. I had no idea this pond was so deep.’

‘It is deep,’ agreed Browne. ‘The fish would have died years ago, were it not. But the corpse is not under the water, Bartholomew. It has not moved.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw that Browne was right. ‘But I saw a face,’ he said, wondering whether he had imagined it; the pond was murky after all. ‘It floated past me …’

‘There are two corpses,’ cried Cynric, the shrillness of his voice making everyone jump. ‘I told you this place was evil!’

Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and saw the unmistakable shape of a second body, bobbing a short distance from the first.

‘Actually, there are three,’ breathed Michael, gesturing in entirely another direction. ‘Lord save us! It is a veritable graveyard!’