Murder by the Book

Chapter 2

It was late afternoon by the time the beadles had completed an initial dredge of the pond. The first body had been snagged on the underwater structure, and it had taken three of them to haul it free; the other corpses had been recovered by dropping hooks into the water. The pond released a foul odour as it was disturbed, and several beadles claimed to feel faint, so Michael sent Cynric to fetch Bartholomew, who had gone home. The physician arrived to find the men sullen and fearful, but was unsympathetic when he learned why.

‘The smell is not the Devil’s breath,’ he said firmly, glaring at his book-bearer as he did so – he knew exactly who had put that thought into their minds. ‘It is just stagnant water.’

‘We found four bodies in the end,’ said Michael, pointing to a row of shrouded shapes. ‘And a bucketful of bones that could represent yet more unfortunates.’

Bartholomew inspected them quickly. ‘Chickens and geese, Brother, from the tavern’s table. And one or two cats that must have tried to catch the fish and tumbled in. The sides of the pond are steep, and if the water was low, it might be difficult to climb out again.’

‘No, the evil faeries had them,’ countered Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Cats have excellent balance, and do not fall into pools while hunting. And even if they did, they can swim.’

‘Normally, I would ask you to examine these bodies – the human ones, I mean – immediately,’ said Michael, ignoring him and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are all tired, so it can wait. My beadles will take them to St Mary the Great, and you can look at them tomorrow, when inconsiderate book-bearers are not making unsettling remarks about demonic spirits and the like.’

‘But it is true,’ objected Cynric, stung. ‘I told you this garden had a sinister aura, and the presence of corpses here proves it.’

‘I had better do it now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tale is already out that bodies have been found, and people have gathered in the lane outside, clamouring to know names. Apparently, several people have gone missing over the last few weeks, and their loved ones are eager for answers. Perhaps, like Browne, these four had a penchant for Newe Inn’s fish.’

‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘One careless poacher might have fallen in, or even two, but not more.’

Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the first. The body was fresh, and he doubted it had been immersed for more than a day. He inspected it quickly.

‘There is no sign of a slit throat. Or any other wound for that matter, although I will look more carefully tomorrow.’

Michael frowned. ‘A slit throat?’

‘Like the beggar, Tulyet’s night-watchman and Adam,’ explained Bartholomew. He shrugged at the monk’s bemused expression. ‘You are right in that four people are unlikely to have died of natural causes here, so unless we have two killers on the loose …’

‘But Dick said the others were probably executed because they saw smugglers. Smugglers will not be operating in the grounds of Newe Inn, so the two cases cannot possibly be connected.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He stared at the corpse’s unfamiliar features. Its clothes indicated a man of some substance, because they were of excellent quality and almost new. The same was true of the next victim, who bore an uncanny likeness to the first. Both had deeply ink-stained fingers.

‘Have any brothers been reported missing?’ he asked. ‘Clerks, perhaps, or scribes?’

‘Yes – and you were there when it happened.’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Philip and John London, who work in the stationer’s shop. Weasenham mentioned they were late for work today.’

‘He also said they were members of Batayl,’ said Bartholomew, glancing in its direction. ‘Which lies next door, and whose scholars raised the alarm about a corpse here.’

‘Not these corpses, though. They were underwater, and invisible until you stirred them up.’

‘Are these the London brothers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I never met them.’

Michael peered at them. ‘Yes, more is the pity. They have helped Weasenham quietly and efficiently ever since the Death.’

The plague that had scoured the civilised world, killing entire communities in a matter of days, had been such a terrible experience that people nearly always used it to refer to events in the past – everything was either before the Death or after it. Bartholomew covered the brothers, and removed the blanket that had been placed over the next victim.

‘Northwood!’ he exclaimed in horror. He looked up at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘He is the Carmelite who voted in favour of the Common Library – against the wishes of his colleagues. I liked him, Brother. He gave my fellow medici and me some helpful advice about developing our clean-burning lamp fuel.’

‘I knew him only by reputation – for his lively mind and interest in alchemy. Who is the last?’

Bartholomew pulled the cover from the fourth body, and pushed the sodden hair away from its face. It was the one with the arrow in its back. He recoiled with shock a second time.

‘It is Vale,’ he said in a voice that was not quite steady. ‘The Gonville Hall physician. No wonder he was not at the Convocation earlier! His colleagues mentioned his absence, if you recall.’

‘Vale?’ echoed Michael. ‘But this makes no sense! What do a friar, two scriveners and a medicus have in common?’

Bartholomew did not know, but the day seemed suddenly colder and darker.

Dismayed and saddened by what he had seen, Bartholomew was tempted to ignore Michael’s recommendation to leave the examinations until the following morning, and do it straight away. But he had been up most of the previous night with a patient and knew better than to undertake such an important task when his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep. He followed Michael and Cynric through the garden to the small gate that led into Cholles Lane.

‘Walkelate and his craftsmen were no help,’ said Michael, once he had reported what little he knew about the victims to the anxious crowd outside, and was walking away. ‘The pond cannot be seen from the house, and neither can the gate. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, despite the fact that they work on that accursed building all the hours God gives.’

‘I will ask around,’ offered Cynric. ‘Someone will have noticed something peculiar, because four men do not die with no witnesses.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said the monk fervently. ‘Do you mind starting now?’

Because it was a pretty evening, the streets were busy, and Michael and Bartholomew met a number of people they knew as they walked to Michaelhouse, some enjoying a relaxing stroll and others going home after work. The physician’s sister and her husband were among the former. They were deep in conversation, and Edith’s worried frown deepened when she saw her brother.

‘We were just talking about your grisly discovery at Newe Inn, Matt,’ she said sympathetically. ‘The tale is already all over the town. It must have been horrible for you.’

‘Do you know the names of the victims yet?’ Oswald Stanmore was a wealthy cloth merchant, a handsome, grey-haired man with a neat beard and fine clothes.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers.’

Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Not Northwood! He was a lovely man, and often came to our house to talk about cloth-dyeing. He was interested in such things.’

‘He was,’ agreed Stanmore, shaken. ‘He liked anything to do with mixing different ingredients together, and recommended several improvements that saved me a lot of money. He was interested in your efforts to create a clean-burning lamp, Matt, and wanted to be part of it.’

Bartholomew nodded again. ‘Unfortunately, Rougham and Holm will only experiment with other medici, and refused his offer. It was a pity, because I think he would have been useful.’

‘He would,’ whispered Cynric to Michael. ‘And they should have accepted his help, because they are making scant progress on their own. Personally, I suspect they will never succeed.’

‘I wish you would hurry up with it, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘I should like to be able to work winter nights without straining my eyes. So would many other folk, and I predict your non-flickering lamp will make you very rich, although I know money is not what drives you.’

Bartholomew did not reply. He was feeling despondent, partly because he hated to admit that several months of experiments had produced nothing worthwhile, but mostly because of what had happened to Vale and Northwood.

‘It seems to me that half of Cambridge is busy trying to invent something at the moment,’ said Edith. ‘The medici with clean-burning fuel, Northwood with dyes, the Carmelites with ink, Weasenham with paper-making, to name but a few.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It all began in January, when a deputation of scholars from Oxford came and bragged about some experiments they were conducting. As you can imagine, our Regents hated the prospect of being outshone by the Other Place, so quite a number of them turned inventor.’

‘Is that what has prompted this recent spirit of enquiry?’ asked Edith, amused. ‘A desire not to be bested by academic rivals?’

‘Partly,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is also about being more attractive to benefactors and patrons. And about drawing the best students. Applications to study here have increased tenfold since some of our Regents have become alchemists.’

‘I imagine they have,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘These pupils all hope to be part of these discoveries, so they can claim a slice of the profits when they are sold. But to return to the bodies at Newe Inn, Weasenham told us that one had an arrow in its back, and–’

‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Must he gossip about everything? Of course, he probably did not know then that two of his scribes are among the victims.’

‘That will make three of his scriveners dead in a single day,’ said Edith. ‘Poor Ruth! She was distressed about Adam, but she will be heartbroken over the London brothers. She was fond of them, because her husband tended to curtail his rumour-mongering when they were to hand.’

‘So once again our town is plagued by killers,’ said Stanmore bleakly, placing a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘I cannot imagine what it is about Cambridge that attracts them.’

‘Matt has not inspected the bodies yet,’ warned Michael. ‘And until he does, we cannot say that murder–’

‘Of course they were murdered,’ interrupted Stanmore scornfully. ‘A man cannot shoot himself in the back with an arrow. Nor do four men choose the same spot in which to dispatch themselves, while if it was an accident, you would have seen it straight away. They were unlawfully slain all right. Poor Northwood! And poor John and Philip London, too!’

‘What about poor Vale?’ asked Michael.

It was Edith who answered. ‘I shall pray for his soul, but I disliked him. He pestered my seamstresses relentlessly, and I had to order him to stay away from them in the end.’

‘He was sly, as well as a lecher,’ added Stanmore. ‘He tried to cheat me when I sold him some cloth, and I was incensed that he should consider me a fool.’

‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding,’ said Bartholomew, troubled by the remarks. ‘I am sure he would not have–’

‘Dear Matt,’ said Edith fondly, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘Always thinking well of even the most brazen of villains.’

‘Incidentally, I am pleased to hear that the Common Library is almost ready,’ said Stanmore. ‘I have it in mind to donate my collection of breviaries to the venture.’

‘But you have always said those would come to Michaelhouse,’ cried Michael in dismay.

‘I have changed my mind. Chancellor Tynkell has promised twice as many masses for my soul if I give them to him instead. It–’

‘Who is that?’ asked Bartholomew suddenly, pointing to where a man and a woman were walking together. He had seen them before, and there was something about the lady that reminded him of Matilde, the love of his life who had disappeared from Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. That had been three years ago, almost to the day, and he had spent many months searching for her, but had finally resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. That did not mean he never thought about her, though, and the woman who walked along Milne Street bore an uncanny resemblance.

‘Sir Eustace Dunning and his younger daughter Julitta,’ replied Stanmore. ‘He is an influential member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and thus a powerful voice in town affairs. You should know him, Matt – he was the one who gave Newe Inn to your University.’

‘Julitta,’ repeated Bartholomew, a little dreamily.

‘Sister to Weasenham’s wife Ruth,’ Stanmore went on. ‘You can see the likeness, with their fair skin and pretty eyes. And in their intelligence, too.’

‘Julitta is betrothed to Surgeon Holm,’ added Edith. ‘Although I cannot say I would like to marry a surgeon. They probably bring home some shocking stains.’

Dunning was a handsome man in his fifties, whose thick grey hair and matching beard made him appear venerable, like a modern-day Plato. He had fought in the Scottish wars, where his courage had earned him his spurs, and he had inherited a sizeable fortune from his father.

‘I am sorry my benefaction continues to cause strife, Brother,’ he said, as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘It was intended to please the University, not be a source of discord.’

Julitta laughed, a pleasant sound that reminded Bartholomew even more acutely of Matilde. His stomach lurched, and he could not stop staring at her. She had long, silky brown hair that she wore in a plait, and her slender figure was accentuated by the elegant cut of her kirtle. But it was her face that was her most striking feature. It was clear and sweet, and with the exception of Matilde, he could not ever recall seeing anyone so lovely.

‘What did you expect?’ she asked, eyes dancing. ‘Cambridge’s academics are clever men with strong opinions. I imagine any proposal will meet with opposition, no matter how kindly meant.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘Of course, it is a pity the Carmelites and Batayl feel they have a right to Newe Inn. It would have been better had you donated a different building to the venture, and I understand you have plenty. Perhaps you will give us another.’

It was Dunning’s turn to laugh. ‘You scholars are never satisfied!’

‘On the contrary, we are very grateful,’ said Michael, although he failed to sound sincere. ‘But my point was that you had already promised–’

‘I promised nothing,’ interrupted Dunning wearily. ‘The White Friars and Batayl have been clamouring at me for months to give them Newe Inn, and in an effort to shut them up, I said I would consider their applications. Consider, not agree to them. And that is all.’

‘I suspect Principal Coslaye and Prior Etone embellished the tale because they want my father to withdraw his offer to establish a library,’ explained Julitta. ‘They are not naturally sly, but the issue seems to have made them extraordinarily excitable.’

‘We have just visited it,’ said Dunning with a sudden smile. ‘I go there as often as possible, to monitor progress. Walkelate is an impressive fellow; he vowed it would be ready by Corpus Christi, and I am beginning to think he will succeed.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael. He did not add ‘more is the pity’, but it was evident in his tone.

‘Our scheme is a good one, Brother,’ insisted Dunning, hearing the censure. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell assures me that it will benefit all concerned, even those who object now. A lack of books prevents many scholars from achieving all they might. A library will help them, and earn your studium generale the respect and fame it deserves.’

‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘But Tynkell’s motives for encouraging this scheme are not altruistic. He wants to be remembered after he retires next year.’

‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Julitta. ‘I understand he has done very little else during his tenure.’

‘The library will be a credit to you, Sir Eustace,’ said Bartholomew, finding his voice at last. ‘In fact, Kente has already made you immortal by carving your face on one of the lecterns.’

‘You noticed, did you?’ Dunning was pleased. ‘There is one of Julitta, too, and of Ruth, my other daughter.’

‘Kente has immortalised Tynkell, too,’ said Michael sullenly. ‘As Eden’s serpent.’

‘Nonsense, Brother!’ exclaimed Julitta, laughing again. ‘What an imagination you have!’

Dunning changed the subject by turning to Bartholomew and asking conversationally, ‘Surgeon Holm, who is soon to be my son-in-law, told me last night that you drilled a large hole in Coslaye’s skull after it was crushed by a flying book at the Convocation. Is it true?’

Bartholomew found himself strangely reluctant to have Julitta think badly of him by admitting that he regularly trespassed on barber-surgeon territory, especially as she was betrothed to one of them. ‘Well,’ he hedged awkwardly. ‘It was …’

‘He also said that Coslaye would have died had you not done so,’ added Julitta. ‘I think you were extremely brave to have undertaken such a difficult procedure. Brave and noble.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, taken off guard. He was unused to praise for his surgical skills.

Julitta nodded. ‘He said that he would not have dared do it, and was astonished that you did.’

Bartholomew made no reply, but was dismayed to hear that a tried and tested technique like trephining was beyond the talents of the town’s new surgeon. In fact, he recalled being unimpressed with Holm’s ‘help’ during the entire procedure, and it added to his growing suspicion that the man was not as proficient as he would have everyone believe.

‘Perhaps you should not have bothered,’ said Dunning tartly, ‘given that Coslaye recovered to spread lies about the promises I am alleged to have made.’

‘Really, Father!’ admonished Julitta. ‘That is not a nice thing to say, and Coslaye has his virtues. He is said to be an excellent teacher.’

‘You are quite right, my dear,’ said Dunning with a sigh. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. We had better go home before weariness leads me to say something else I do not mean.’

They moved away. Bartholomew watched them go, and might have stared at Julitta until she was out of sight, had Michael not prodded him, bringing him to his senses.

The two scholars resumed their journey, but had not gone far before their attention was caught by an altercation between four men. Browne was one of them, and Principal Coslaye another. Coslaye was a large man with rough, soldierly features and a notoriously hot temper, and he was shouting at the top of his voice. The objects of his ire were Riborowe and Jorz from the Carmelite Priory, and there was a lot of finger-wagging involved.

Bartholomew skirted to one side, loath to become involved in any debate that involved the waving of digits; in his experience men who employed such gestures were invariably bigots and closed to reason. However, the Senior Proctor could not walk past a quarrel that looked set to become violent, and when Coslaye jabbed Riborowe hard enough to make the skinny friar stagger, Michael stepped forward to intervene.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, interposing his considerable bulk between them.

‘There is a rumour that the University is going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites,’ explained Browne when his Principal was too enraged to speak. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell said we could have first refusal on any sale of land.’

Riborowe sneered at him. ‘If you took Tynkell’s word for anything, you are a fool. He will say anything for a quiet life, and is always reneging on agreements.’

‘Tynkell would have pledged no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He knows better than to annoy me further with anything concerning the Common Library.’

That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew: Tynkell had been wholly unprepared for the extent of Michael’s wrath when the monk had learned that the Chancellor had been negotiating with wealthy benefactors behind his back. Some very harsh words had been aimed in his direction, and Tynkell had been desperate to make amends ever since.

‘You do not need more land,’ snarled Coslaye, ignoring him and addressing the Carmelites. ‘You have lots already. But we do not, and if you were good Christians, you would let us have it.’

‘Please, gentlemen,’ began Michael. ‘This is hardly the–’

‘How will you pay for it?’ sneered Jorz. ‘You are paupers. However, we White Friars have the money to buy any land we choose.’

‘We can find funds,’ shouted Coslaye, incensed. ‘We have generous friends who will–’

‘Enough!’ roared Michael. He lowered his voice when both the Carmelites and the Batayl men regarded him in astonishment. ‘People are staring at you, laughing at your unedifying behaviour.’

‘I do not care.’ Coslaye’s face was mottled, and Bartholomew hoped rage would not induce a seizure. ‘Besides, the White Friars started it.’

Michael scowled at each of the four in turn. ‘Bring your grievances to me at St Mary the Great tomorrow, and we shall attempt to resolve the matter amicably.’ He raised a plump hand when all four began to object. ‘Not another word, or I shall fine all for breaching the peace.’

‘Who told you that the University was going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew of the Batayl men in the resentful silence that followed. ‘Because Michael is right: Tynkell would never have made such an offer.’

‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Browne, regarding him with dislike. ‘No one invited you to join this discussion.’

‘There is no need to be rude,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘I owe Bartholomew my life, in case you do not recall. He even waived his fee for the help he gave me, on account of our poverty.’

‘Yes, but the Devil probably paid him in kind,’ said Riborowe slyly. ‘I have heard that Satan is partial to poring over exposed brains. It amuses him.’

‘And how do you come to be party to Satan’s preferences, pray?’ asked Michael archly. He turned to Browne while the Carmelite was still floundering about for a suitable reply. ‘Matt posed a good question. Who told you this tale?’

‘The stationer,’ replied Browne. ‘Not that it is–’

‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘His lying tongue will see our town in flames yet. But we shall discuss this tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.’

Riborowe opened his mouth to object to the curt dismissal, but Jorz grabbed his arm and pulled him away, sensing it was unwise to irritate the Senior Proctor further.

‘The experiment we are running with the ink should be finished by now, Riborowe,’ he muttered. ‘Let us return to the scriptorium and see the results.’

‘I am complaining to the Bishop about you, Brother,’ called Riborowe threateningly over his shoulder, struggling to free himself from Jorz’s grip. ‘You run the University like a tyrant.’

‘Try it,’ shouted Coslaye challengingly. ‘It will do you no good. He is the Bishop’s spy, and he has accrued his power with de Lisle’s approval and connivance.’

Bartholomew suspected that was true: Michael could not have reached such dizzying heights without the backing of some extremely influential supporters. ‘How are you feeling, Coslaye?’ he asked, eager to change the subject to one that was less contentious; Michael was looking angry. ‘Any headaches?’

Coslaye sniffed. ‘Yes, a great big one. It is called the Carmelites!’

‘We should have asked whether they have noticed any suspicious behaviour around Newe Inn’s pond recently,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone again. ‘The Carmelites and Batayl Hostel are among its nearest neighbours, after all.’

‘I considered it, but tempers were running too high – both sides might have invented stories just to see the other discredited. I shall quiz them tomorrow, when they are calmer. But we had better speak to Weasenham about gossip that disturbs the peace. Will you come with me?’

‘What, now?’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It is getting late and I am tired.’

‘Yes, now,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Who knows what damage the man might do if we delay?’

On warm summer evenings, the University stationer could usually be found sitting on the bench outside his shop, enjoying the fading daylight and devising salacious and invariably fictitious tales about passers-by. He was there that night, Ruth on one side, and Bonabes on the other. He was uncharacteristically subdued, though, while Bonabes was pale and Ruth had been crying.

‘Is it true?’ asked the Exemplarius, coming quickly to his feet as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘You found Philip and John London in Newe Inn’s pond?’

Michael nodded. ‘News travels fast, it seems.’

‘We heard it from one of your beadles,’ explained Weasenham. ‘It is a wretched shame, especially after poor Adam. I know scribes are ten a penny in Cambridge, where every other man you meet can write, and I shall have no trouble finding replacements. But I liked Adam and the London brothers.’

‘We shall all miss them,’ added Ruth in a small voice. ‘Philip and John were so …’ She trailed off, unable to speak.

‘Calm,’ supplied Bonabes. ‘When business was frantic, with everyone screaming at us for completed exemplars, they soothed hot tempers with quiet words.’ He shot Weasenham a pointed glance. ‘And they were always quick to point out the undesirability of gossip.’

‘They were sanctimonious in that respect,’ nodded Weasenham. ‘And I am not a gossip. I just like to share what I know with other people.’

‘You gossiped to Browne about the Carmelites buying land from the University,’ said Michael.

‘I never did,’ declared Weasenham, although his eyes were furtive, while Ruth and Bonabes exchanged a pained glance that made it clear the stationer was lying.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Michael was exasperated and angry. ‘You know how irate our scholars get over anything to do with the Common Library.’

‘That is hardly my fault,’ said Weasenham defensively. ‘And I had the tale on good authority, anyway – Tynkell came to my shop this morning, and I heard him tell Sawtre that Newe Inn’s garden will be worth a lot of money one day, because it is strategically sited near the town centre.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘That is hardly the same as Tynkell saying he will sell it to the Carmelites.’

‘Of course he will sell it to the Carmelites,’ said Weasenham irritably. ‘They want it, and will pay above the odds to get it. Of course the University will trade with them. It is a matter of logic.’

‘It is an erroneous assumption that caused a quarrel,’ said Michael sternly.

Weasenham’s eyes brightened. ‘Really? Was there any violence? But of course there was, and I am not surprised. The Batayl men are fierce and aggressive, while that Browne is a nasty–’

‘There was no violence,’ interrupted Bartholomew hastily, appalled by the way Michael’s words were being twisted.

Ruth took Weasenham’s hand. ‘Please, husband. The Carmelites are good men. They do not deserve to be set at odds with Batayl.’

‘They are good men,’ admitted Weasenham. ‘Although I cannot say I like Riborowe and Jorz. Whenever they come to my shop, I am always under the impression that they are spying.’

‘Spying?’ asked Michael warily. ‘On what?’

‘On our paper-making experiments,’ explained Bonabes. ‘They run a scriptorium, so any advances in the manufacture of writing materials is of interest to them.’

‘Of course, spying will do them no good now the London brothers have gone,’ said Weasenham gloomily. ‘They were the ones who enjoyed meddling with dangerous substances, and the rest of us do not really know what we are doing. Perhaps we had better give up now that they are no longer here to guide us.’

‘No,’ said Bonabes. There was a catch in his voice. ‘They worked hard on this, and succeeding meant a lot to them. So I shall continue their endeavours, in my own time, if necessary. And when I learn how to do it, I shall name the paper-making process after them.’

Weasenham’s sly features softened. ‘There is no need to use your own time,’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. ‘You are right: they did work hard to succeed, and it would be a pity to let their labours go to waste. We shall all help you finish what they started.’

Bonabes turned away at his master’s unexpected and uncharacteristic kindness, and Ruth began to cry again. Bartholomew and Michael left Weasenham trying ineptly to comfort them.

They had not taken many steps towards Michaelhouse when they were intercepted by Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, who had come to say that a quarrel had broken out between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel, and the Senior Proctor’s presence was needed to soothe the situation.

‘They are arguing over the library,’ Meadowman explained, rolling his eyes. ‘Again. Apparently, Master Heltisle made some remark about the grace being passed by ignorant ruffians, and Essex took exception. I wish the Chancellor had never had the stupid idea in the first place.’

‘You are not alone,’ muttered Michael, as they hurried away together.

When they had gone, Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go home, despite his weariness. He was unsettled by the events of the day, and suspected he would not sleep if he went to bed anyway. Besides, he felt a certain obligation to tell his medical colleagues in person that Vale was dead, so he began to walk towards Bridge Street, to the home of John Meryfeld, which had become the meeting place of the Cambridge medici in their quest for steady-burning lamp fuel. They had planned to resume their experiments that evening, and Bartholomew had been sorry that his duties as Corpse Examiner had prevented him from joining them.

He made his way past the jumble of alleys known as the Old Jewry, where Matilde had lived, and entered Bridge Street. A breeze was blowing from the east, carrying with it the scent of the Fens – stagnant water, rotting vegetation and wet earth. It was a smell he had known since childhood, and one he found curiously comforting and familiar. Then there was a breath of sweetness from some honeysuckle, followed by a rather unpleasant waft from a latrine that needed emptying.

He arrived at Meryfeld’s house and knocked on the door, hoping it was not too late and his colleagues would still be there. Since beginning their quest the previous winter, the physicians had met at least once a week, and he had come to enjoy the sessions, despite their lack of progress. They were opinionated and dogmatic, and Bartholomew would never share his more novel theories with them, but he had come to accept their idiosyncrasies – and they his – and they had all gradually adopted attitudes of comradely tolerance.

Meryfeld’s plump face broke into a happy grin of welcome when he opened his door. He was always smiling, and had a habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke. He was not the cleanest of men, and his affable, pleasant manner concealed an intensely acquisitive core, but Bartholomew liked him anyway.

‘Hah!’ Meryfeld exclaimed. ‘We thought you were not coming. Vale did not arrive, either, so we assumed that you must have received summonses from patients. Come in, come in.’

His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’s faith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.

William Rougham, portly, smug and arrogant, was reclining in Meryfeld’s best chair. He deplored the fact that Bartholomew had trained with an Arab physician, and regarded his methods as controversial and dangerous. In turn, Bartholomew despised Rougham’s traditionalism and resistance to change. But they had reached a truce over the years, and although they would never be friends, there was no longer open hostility in their relationship.

John Gyseburne was by the hearth. He was an austere, long-haired, unsmiling man in his fifties, who was of the firm belief that the only reliable diagnostic weapon was the inspection of urine. He always had a flask to hand, and rarely conducted consultations without requesting a sample; Bartholomew had even heard him demand one from a patient with a grazed knee. Despite this, Bartholomew had come to respect his opinions, and felt there was much to be learned from him.

The last of the gathering was Will Holm. Bartholomew had been delighted when the surgeon had first arrived, because Cambridge’s last sawbones had retired, and there had been no one, other than Bartholomew himself, to suture wounds, draw teeth or amputate damaged limbs. Unfortunately, it had not taken him long to learn that Holm was alarmingly hesitant, and while caution was admirable in one sense – his predecessor had forged ahead when it would have been kinder to let well alone – it was frustrating in another. Patients had died whom Bartholomew felt could have been saved. It was unusual for a mere surgeon to be included in a gathering of physicians, but Holm was a lofty sort of man who had taken his acceptance as an equal for granted. He was cleaner, better dressed and infintely more refined than most of his fellows, and Bartholomew was always under the impression that he considered himself a cut above not just other barber-surgeons but above physicians, too.

‘You are late,’ Holm said brusquely, draining the contents of his goblet and setting it on a table. He was a tall, astonishingly handsome man with a luxurious mane of bright gold hair. ‘We were just about to leave.’

‘We were discussing Coslaye again,’ said Gyseburne, his tone rather more friendly than Holm’s. ‘We are still stunned by his recovery.’

‘I would not have opened his cranium,’ said Rougham. ‘Brains are easily damaged, and you might have hastened his end by drilling that hole in his head. I am surprised you dared do it.’

‘There was no choice,’ explained Bartholomew, wondering how much longer they would continue to debate this particular case. Trephining was an ancient, well-tested technique, and he failed to understand why they insisted on making so much of it. ‘Coslaye was bleeding inside his skull, and he would have died had we not relieved the pressure.’

‘He allowed me to examine his scar yesterday,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It has healed beautifully.’

‘Pity,’ murmured Holm. ‘He is one of those who opposes the Common Library. Still, the project proceeds apace regardless, and I am looking forward to seeing it opened next week. Dunning, my future father-in-law, has promised me a prominent role in the ceremony, and it is always good to be seen and admired by people who might be patients one day.’

‘A central repository for texts is a foolish notion,’ declared Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘Chancellor Tynkell should be ashamed of himself for coming up with it, and I have told him so.’

‘I do not know what all the fuss is about,’ said Meryfeld. ‘I learned everything I know from my father, and I have never felt the desire to expand on it by consulting dusty old tomes.’

‘Yes, and it shows,’ muttered Rougham snidely. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Why did you come tonight? It is too late to begin an experiment now.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gyseburne with a yawn. ‘I wonder what happened to Vale. He did not mention previous appointments when I saw him earlier, and he told me he would be here.’

‘When was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

Gyseburne rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose it was last night. Like me, he had been busy with a tertian fever, and we met on our respective ways home. I heard you were similarly inconvenienced, Matthew. Weasenham saw you walking home after tending some hapless soul all night.’

‘Tertian fevers do seem to be more virulent this year,’ mused Rougham. ‘It must be something to do with the weather. But Vale must have been summoned again after you saw him, Gyseburne, because he missed College breakfast. I went to look for him, but his bed had not been slept in.’

‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew, sorry when he saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces, especially Rougham’s – the two Gonville men had been friends. ‘That is why I did not join you this evening. I was inspecting his body after it was pulled from the pond in Newe Inn’s garden.’

‘He was perfectly healthy when I saw him last,’ said Rougham unsteadily. ‘Was he murdered?’

‘Probably,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There was an arrow in his back, and Northwood and the London brothers were in the pool with him–’

‘Northwood?’ demanded Rougham. ‘What was Vale doing in company with that old rogue?’

‘He was not a rogue,’ countered Meryfeld sharply. ‘He was a very clever man.’

‘Let us not quarrel,’ said Gyseburne softly. ‘This is terrible news, and we should all go home quietly, and pray for the souls of these hapless men.’

The streets were quiet as the medici said their farewells, and it would not be long before the curfew bell sounded. The last of the Market Square traders were wending their way home, some on carts and others on foot. Friars and monks had completed vespers, and were already ensconced in their convents, Colleges or hostels. A few students roamed, obviously intent on breaking University rules and sampling the town’s taverns, but Michael’s beadles also prowled, ready to arrest and fine any lad caught out without a plausible excuse.

Gyseburne lived near the castle, so went north when the five medici parted company. Rougham went with him, saying he had a patient who had summoned him earlier, although Bartholomew was unimpressed that he had kept the person waiting while he drank wine and chatted with his friends. It left him walking south with Holm.

‘I thought I saw lamps in Newe Inn’s grounds last night,’ said Holm thoughtfully. ‘I live next door, as you know. But I assumed I was mistaken – Walkelate and his craftsmen are labouring frantically to finish the library by next week, and they often work late. However, they rarely venture into the garden, and I put the lights down to my imagination. It seems I should not have done.’

‘Have you seen them before?’

Holm nodded. ‘But Cholles Lane is not a salubrious part of town. The riverfolk and Isnard the bargeman live nearby, for a start, and they are desperate criminals. I shall move somewhere nicer when I am married to Dunning’s daughter.’

‘The riverfolk and Isnard are not criminals,’ objected Bartholomew. They had been his patients for years, and he was fond of them.

‘Oh, yes, they are. Isnard is almost certainly a smuggler, while the rest of that rabble poach and steal as the whim takes them. Then there are the murders that the Sheriff is investigating. If Isnard and the riverfolk are innocent of those, I will drink my own piss.’

‘You had better work up a thirst, then,’ said Bartholomew coolly, ‘because the riverfolk would never kill. Or smuggle.’

Holm sneered. ‘Shall we have a bet on it? Five marks?’

It was a colossal sum, and one Bartholomew did not have, but he found himself shaking hands to seal the wager anyway. He sincerely hoped his faith was not misplaced, especially in Isnard, who was hardly a model citizen.

‘I shall not need your money when I marry Julitta, because she comes with a big dowry,’ said Holm smugly. ‘But I am not averse to having more. Did I tell you how I met her? I was visiting my friend Walkelate in Newe Inn, admiring the progress he had made on his library, when Julitta and her father arrived. She fell in love the moment she saw me, being a woman of impeccable taste.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew was not sure what else to say in the face of such unabashed conceit. ‘Have you been betrothed long?’

‘Ever since I realised how wealthy her father is,’ replied Holm with a smirk. ‘I rejected her at first, because I wanted to snare someone more worthy of me. But I made enquiries about Dunning’s assets, and decided she would do. The family is not particularly venerable, but it suits my purposes.’

‘And what about your family?’ Bartholomew was the last man to denigrate surgeons, but it was a lowly profession, and Julitta would certainly be his social superior.

‘I am related to the Holms of Norfolk,’ replied Holm haughtily. ‘We are a highly respected clan already, but I still intend to make the name known throughout the civilised world.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew, forbearing to say that he had never heard of the Holms of Norfolk.

‘I have not decided yet, although it will be easier when I have a wealthy wife. I shall be able to leave the cautery to you and concentrate on more interesting matters. Perhaps I shall invent a special paste for whitening teeth or develop a pill for gout.’

Bartholomew felt his spirits sink. He should have known that having a surgeon in Cambridge was too good to be true, even if it was one with mediocre skills.

‘The lamp fuel represents my best chance of fame, though,’ Holm went on. ‘And fortune, because whoever discovers it will be fabulously rich – everyone will want to buy some. I shall conduct my own experiments when I am married and can afford to buy the ingredients myself. Then there will be no need to share the profits with the rest of you.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I imagine our colleagues will have something to say about that.’

‘They can say what they like: I shall not give them a penny.’ Holm was silent for a while, and so was Bartholomew, stunned by the bald promise of future betrayal. Eventually, the surgeon spoke again. ‘It is a pity about Vale. He was the best of all the physicians, and I wish it had been Gyseburne, Rougham or Meryfeld who had died. Or you, for that matter.’

Once again, Bartholomew could think of no reply to such a remark. He found himself beginning to dislike the man.

Suddenly, Holm smiled. ‘I love the tales of when you and the others first started experimenting with lamp fuel – when you almost blew yourselves up.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘We produced a substance that was explosive, very sticky and impossible to extinguish once it was alight. In the end, we had to bury it, to deprive it of air.’

‘Interesting,’ mused Holm. ‘Tell me more.’

‘None of us can remember what went in it – we had been to a wake, and had imbibed too liberally of our host’s claret. But thank God our minds are blank, because the stuff was akin to the “wildfire” mentioned in the battle accounts of the ancients, and–’

‘Wildfire is not used these days,’ interrupted Holm. ‘I was at the Battle of Poitiers, and while I heard plenty of bombards and ribauldequins being deployed, there was no wildfire.’

Bartholomew had been at Poitiers, too, because bad timing had put him there during his quest to find Matilde. It had been a dreadful experience, and still haunted his dreams. Thus he disliked discussing it, and was disinclined even to address the curious coincidence that Holm should have been on the field, too.

‘That is because wildfire is banned,’ he explained instead. ‘The Second Lateran Council declared it “too murderous” a weapon for war.’

Holm guffawed his disbelief. ‘But war is murderous! And I would have used it, had I had some in my arsenal at Poitiers. I did not enjoy being on the losing side.’

Bartholomew blinked, not sure he had understood correctly. ‘You fought for the French?’

Holm nodded blithely. ‘I thought a military campaign would be a good way to gain experience of wounds. Of course, most of the injuries were too severe to bother with, but I was pleased with an ear I managed to sew back on. I would have preferred to stay with the English army, of course, but the French offered me a lot more money.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that a larger salary should have been immaterial at such a time.

‘I understand you were there, too. Did you see the ribauldequins at work? Unfortunately, they produced so much smoke that I could not really tell how effective they were.’

‘I do not believe any of their missiles found a target. However, there were injuries galore when one exploded – all to its own crew.’ Bartholomew spoke quietly. The wounds had been horrific, even to a man inured to such sights, and he did not want to dwell on them so late at night. ‘They are evil devices, and I cannot imagine what was in the mind of whoever invented them.’

‘On the contrary,’ argued Holm, ‘their presence on the battlefield may mean an early capitulation by an enemy, thus saving lives. If the French had owned a few, loaded with some of that unquenchable substance you created, there would never have been a battle at Poitiers, because the Prince of Wales would have surrendered.’

‘I do not want to discuss this,’ said Bartholomew, the very notion of a ribauldequin that hurled wildfire bringing him out in a cold sweat. ‘It will give me nightmares.’

‘I wish you could recall how you made it,’ said Holm wistfully. ‘The formula would be worth a fortune to a military commander.’

‘No doubt,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But even if we could remember, we are physicians. We save lives: we do not invent ways to cut them short.’

‘You were not drunk that night,’ pressed Holm. ‘I wager you know what went in that pot.’

‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘And Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld were hurling ingredients around without bothering to read the labels. Even if I could recall what was added, I would have no idea how much was used. The experiment is unrepeatable – and I thank God for it.’

Bartholomew parted from Holm near All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. He bade the surgeon goodnight, then paused for a moment outside the house in which Matilde had lived, hoping that thoughts of her would dispel the bad memories his conversation with Holm had awakened. They did, yet failed to make him any happier. He still loved her with a passion that was painful, and he wondered whether he was destined to feel the pangs of loss for the rest of his life.

To take his mind off it, he pondered the bodies that had been found in Newe Inn’s pond. Their discovery meant that there had been seven suspicious deaths in Cambridge, counting the three that Tulyet was investigating. Were they connected? He was inclined to believe not, partly because of what Michael had said – that Vale and the others were unlikely to have stumbled across smugglers in Newe Inn’s garden – but mostly because they had not had their throats cut.

So had the four scholars been together when they had died, or had someone brought their corpses to the pond to hide them? And if the former, what had they been doing? They had all liked experimenting – the brothers with paper, Vale with his universal cure-all, and Northwood with any kind of alchemy – but how could that be relevant? With a sigh, Bartholomew supposed that some of his questions might be answered when he examined them properly the following day.

He let his thoughts return to Holm, and was surprised by the intensity of the dislike he was beginning to feel for the man. He did not take against many people, but there was something deeply distasteful about the surgeon, something that went beyond his dubious medical skills, his repugnant attitude towards his fiancée, and the fact that he had sided against his countrymen in what had been a bitter and terrible battle. Then it occurred to him that he had known Holm for a good two months, but he had never found his faults objectionable before. Meeting Julitta had certainly had an impact!

He was still pondering the surgeon and his bride-to-be when he reached St Michael’s Lane, and it was then that the attack happened. Figures shot from the graveyard opposite and darted towards him. He stopped walking when he saw the unmistakable glint of steel, and peered into the darkness, trying to ascertain whether his assailants were men he knew, but all were cloaked and hooded. There were three of them, and they moved quickly to back him against a wall. Two held cudgels, while the shortest had a dagger.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, sounding a lot braver than he felt. ‘And what do you want?’

‘Tell us the formula, and we will give you a clean death,’ said the knifeman, the leader.

‘I cannot – we have not discovered it yet,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Lamp fuel is–’

‘We do not mean lamp fuel,’ snapped the leader. ‘We mean the other substance.’

‘What other substance?’ Bartholomew rummaged in the medical bag he always wore over his shoulder, and hauled out some childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him. He was rarely called on to help pregnant women, because that was the domain of midwives, but the forceps had served as a weapon more times than he cared to remember. He hated to imagine what Matilde would think if she ever discovered the use to which he usually put them.

‘The one that burns and cannot be doused.’

‘Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing the night was not so dark and he could see his assailants’ faces. ‘I have already told you that I do not know. Now stop this ridiculous charade and–’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ hissed the leader. ‘And it is a valuable secret, so you will appreciate why we do not want you blathering to anyone else. It would not do for our enemies to have it.’

‘Enemies?’ asked Bartholomew, simultaneously alarmed and bemused. ‘What enemies?’

‘Tell us the recipe, or we shall force it from you,’ ordered the leader, adding in a voice that was distinctly menacing, ‘And you will not enjoy that, I promise.’

He nodded to his companions, who stepped forward eagerly. Bartholomew did not wait to find out what they had in mind. He lashed out with the forceps, and caught the leader a blow that made him reel away with a howl of agony. The other two dropped into defensive stances, and Bartholomew could tell from the way they moved that he was in the presence of professionals.

He struck out again, but the biggest ducked and the third man took advantage of his momentary imbalance to knock the forceps from his hand. Then one arm was twisted savagely behind his back, and he was forced to his knees. A blade flashed in the gloom.

‘I will teach you to challenge us,’ snarled the leader. ‘You will regret your lack of cooperation.’

As the weapon began to descend there was a sudden thump and the fellow reeled away with a muted cry, a dagger lodged in his thigh. Then there was a second thud, and the tallest howled and began to dance around on one foot.

‘Run!’ the leader screeched. ‘Quick! He must have beadles watching out for him.’

They fled, two hobbling painfully. Bartholomew waited, but no beadles appeared. The leader was wrong – Michael’s men would have come to accept his thanks if they had been responsible for the rout. So who had saved him? He called out in an unsteady voice, but there was no reply.

After a few moments, he retrieved his forceps and took several steps down St Michael’s Lane, expecting at any moment to feel a searing pain as a knife landed. But none did, and it was with considerable relief that he pounded on the College gates and shouted for the porter to let him in.

He aimed directly for the kitchens, feeling an overpowering need for a drop of medicinal wine, and was just pouring his second cup when a sound behind him made him jump.

‘I am starving,’ said Michael plaintively, although his substantial girth suggested that was unlikely. ‘That thin pottage we had for supper did nothing to quell my hunger, and I shall expire if I do not have something else before morning. You are very pale. What is wrong?’

‘I have just been waylaid by three men eager to know the formula for wildfire,’ explained Bartholomew, taking another large gulp of claret.

Michael regarded him sharply. ‘I thought you said your fellow physicians were drunk when they stumbled across that particular mixture, and no one can remember exactly what went in it. Of course, you were sober. Do you recall what they did?’

Bartholomew looked away. ‘Not precisely.’

‘But you know enough to be able to make some more?’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But please do not tell anyone else.’

Michael watched him finish the wine and pour some more. ‘You do not usually guzzle claret with such gay abandon at this time of night, so I surmise these three men did rather more than “waylay” you. Tell me what happened, Matt.’

In a voice that was still unsteady, Bartholomew obliged. ‘I have no idea who they were,’ he finished. ‘They had disguised themselves with hooded cloaks, and it was dark. They may have been strangers, but they may equally well have been men we know – scholars or townsfolk. Of course, they will be exposed if they walk around town tomorrow, because two of them will be limping.’

‘You fought three villains and emerged victorious?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Lord, Matt! Ever since Poitiers, you have become something of a lion. Perhaps you should abandon medicine and take up the sword instead. Of course, you will have to learn to ride properly first.’

‘Someone drove them off by throwing knives.’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘I could not see who, but he saved my life. Those men meant business …’

‘Then we had better find them,’ said Michael. ‘We do not want you “waylaid” again.’