Murder by the Book

Chapter 3

Bartholomew slept poorly that night, unsettled by his encounter with the three men. He was also plagued by stomach pains, and supposed he must have swallowed tainted water when he had fallen in Newe Inn’s pool. He certainly recalled gulping a good deal of it, and pond water was dangerous at the best of times; when corpses had been soaking in it, he imagined it was deadly.

Afraid his restlessness would disturb the students who shared his room, he rose and left, stepping carefully over the slumbering forms. Although more spacious than most hostels, Michaelhouse was cramped at night, when mattresses were unrolled and laid on the Fellows’ floors for their pupils. The current crush was because the Master had recently enrolled more scholars than they had places for, in order to claim their tuition fees. Some were due to graduate that summer, which was at least partly why Bartholomew was determined that his lads should pass – the College could not house them for another year, should they need to try again.

He stepped into the yard, and breathed in deeply of the pre-dawn air. There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, indicating that dawn was not far off, but it was still dark, and he could only just make out the buildings that had comprised his home for the last fifteen years.

The core of Michaelhouse was an airy, spacious hall, with kitchens, larders and pantries below. At right angles to it were two accommodation wings, and Bartholomew lived in the older, more decrepit, northern one. The square was completed by a thick wall, against which leaned the stables and the porters’ lodge. A heavy gate led to St Michael’s Lane, making the College as secure a foundation as any in the town.

One hand on his rebellious stomach, Bartholomew walked across the yard, thinking he would pass the hour or so before dawn with some quiet reading. The College ‘library’ comprised a corner of the hall that had been provided with shelves and two lockable chests. The books were either chained to the wall or stored in the boxes, depending on their value and popularity.

Although it did not possess many tomes, Michaelhouse had a Librarian. The post had actually been created to prevent its current holder from qualifying as a physician and venturing out among an unsuspecting public: Robert Deynman had been accepted as a student because his father was rich, not for any academic talent, and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been persuaded to abandon medicine for librarianship. As the position was funded by his proud family, the College was even spared the need to pay him – a blessing when money was so tight.

Bartholomew climbed the spiral staircase, then stopped in surprise when he saw a lamp burning. Deynman was there, and although it was not unusual for Fellows to study at night – it was often the only time they had to themselves – the Librarian was not in the habit of depriving himself of sleep to perform his duties.

‘Rob?’ Bartholomew called softly. ‘Why are you here? Are you unwell?’

Deynman jumped. ‘What are you doing up so early?’

‘I could not sleep.’ Bartholomew frowned when he saw Deynman’s red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. ‘What is the matter? Is your father ill? Or your brother?’

‘They are well,’ sniffed Deynman. ‘It is something else that is destroying my happiness.’

Bartholomew sat next to him, supposing he was about to be regaled with some tale of unrequited love. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me what–’

‘You can do nothing,’ said Deynman bitterly. ‘You were one of the villains who voted for it.’

‘The Common Library?’ Bartholomew was bemused, but then understood what was bothering the lad. ‘You are afraid it will render your post obsolete! Well, you need not worry. Master Langelee told me only yesterday that there was no one he trusted more with our books.’

Deynman was unconvinced. ‘But if the likes of you have their way, we shall have no books.’ He ran a loving finger across the one that lay in front of him; its leather cover had been buffed to within an inch of its life, and shone rather artificially. ‘They will all be in this Common Library, where undergraduates will be able to get at them.’

‘But that is a good thing,’ said Bartholomew, struggling not to smile at the disapproval Deynman had managed to inject into the word ‘undergraduates’. ‘They are here to learn, and access to the works they are required to study is–’

‘But they do not need to handle them!’ cried Deynman, distraught. ‘They can listen to a master reading. Or, if they must see the words themselves, they can hire an exemplar. They do not need to see the original texts. To touch them.’ He shuddered at such a terrible notion.

‘But books are meant to be read,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And–’

‘They are meant to be cherished, not mauled by grubby students. You should have voted properly at the Convocation – you were Michaelhouse’s only dissenter. And you should be careful, because I heard what happened to Northwood, Vale and the Londons.’

Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

Deynman pursed his lips. ‘Vale voted against the wishes of his Gonville colleagues; the London brothers voted against their friends at Batayl; and Northwood voted against his Carmelites. All supported that evil Common Library. And now they have been murdered for their perfidy.’

Bartholomew supposed that all four had backed the grace to found the Common Library, but that had been six weeks ago, and he was inclined to believe it was coincidence.

‘We do not know for certain that they have been murdered,’ he said, although without much conviction. ‘I have not examined them yet.’

‘Well, when you do, you will find that they are dead by the hand of someone who deplores traitors,’ said Deynman firmly. Then his expression changed from angry to concerned. ‘Are you unwell, sir? You are very pale, and you keep gripping your stomach. Perhaps I had better fetch you some milksops from the kitchens. Do not look alarmed. I shall not poison them.’

‘I did not think you would,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the notion. ‘And I do not need anything to–’

But Deynman had gone, leaving Bartholomew wondering whether he should have voted against the Common Library after all. It would have meant going against his principles, but he compromised those all the time – when he failed to tell people that his more successful medical techniques had been learned from his Arab teacher; when he opted not to share innovative theories with his fellow physicians because he did not want to be accused of heterodoxy; and when he concealed his reliance on certain ‘heretical’ texts. And opposing the library would certainly have made for a more peaceful life.

He was not feeling much better when dawn came and the bell rang to tell Michaelhouse’s scholars that it was time to attend their morning devotions. He trudged wearily into the yard.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Father William, a grimy Franciscan whose habit was generally considered to be the filthiest garment in Christendom. He also possessed some deeply repellent beliefs, and although Bartholomew had grown used to his ways and had learned to ignore them, the newer Fellows found him difficult to take. ‘You look terrible.’

‘You do,’ agreed Thelnetham, one of the more recent arrivals. ‘Very wan.’

He was a Gilbertine canon and a celebrated scholar of law. He was also brazenly effeminate, and was known for livening up the plain habit of his Order with flamboyant accessories. That morning, there was a purple bow tied around his waist in place of a simple rope cingulum. He and William could not have been more different, and had become bitter and implacable enemies the moment they had set eyes on each other.

‘Shall I fetch you some wine, Matt?’ offered Ayera, a tall, intelligent geometrician who liked horses, dogs and outdoor pursuits. Other than a deep and – to Bartholomew’s mind, at least – irrational aversion to anatomy, he was easy and congenial company, and the physician liked his ready wit, wry humour and dedication to his students.

‘Will your indisposition prevent you from teaching today?’ asked Suttone, the College’s only Carmelite, when Bartholomew shook his head to the offer of strong drink so early in the day. He was a plump man in a creamy white habit. ‘If so, I decline to mind your class in your absence. The last time I obliged you, they rioted.’

‘Only because you told them the plague would return within the year,’ objected Bartholomew defensively. ‘They tend to believe what senior scholars say, and were worried. When I came back, I was hard pressed to prevent them from leaving Cambridge to warn their loved ones immediately.’

‘But it will return within the year,’ declared Suttone. ‘I know I have been saying that for a decade, but this time I am right. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Then let us hope your bones are wrong,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I remember spending the entire time being extremely frightened.’

‘You were right to be,’ declared William loftily. ‘It was God’s judgement on the wicked. I shall survive if it returns, naturally, because I am saintly. However, the same cannot be said for the rest of you miserable sinners.’

He shot a disparaging glance at Thelnetham’s purple bow, then treated every other Fellow to a similarly haughty glare. Except Bartholomew. He had publicly accused the physician of being a warlock the previous summer, and had later been sorry. Guilt and a determination to make amends meant the physician could do no wrong. It would not last, but Bartholomew was finding it pleasant while it did.

‘I am sorry about the men who died yesterday,’ said Clippesby, the last of Michaelhouse’s seven Fellows currently in residence; the eighth was spending the summer at Waltham Abbey. Clippesby was a Dominican, whose penchant for talking to animals, and claiming they talked back, led most people to assume he was mad. That morning, he was cuddling what looked suspiciously like a rat. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers were kind and good.’

‘They were not,’ argued Thelnetham immediately. ‘They were scoundrels.’

‘You disliked Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘But he was a talented scholar.’

‘Being a talented scholar did not make him a decent person,’ retorted Thelnetham. ‘Moreover, I heard he was not always honest when dealing with tradesmen. And he was obliged to treat with lots, because his duties included buying supplies for the Carmelites’ scriptorium.’

‘Did you hear that from Weasenham?’ asked Bartholomew. His feelings towards Thelnetham were ambivalent: the mincing canon had a sharp tongue that he often used to wound, yet he was also intelligent and insightful.

‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham rather stiffly. ‘Not all his tales are fiction, and he furnishes me with some extremely interesting information. Such as that a certain Dominican spent hours last week conversing with bats, and a certain Franciscan was given a book for our College that has not yet been passed to Deynman.’

‘The bats have been very vocal of late,’ said Clippesby, smiling serenely. He rarely took umbrage at his colleagues’ gibes. ‘It must be the weather.’

‘What book?’ demanded William at the same time, although his furtive expression suggested he knew exactly what Thelnetham was talking about.

‘Did Weasenham regale you with any tales about Northwood, Vale and the London brothers?’ asked Michael, always interested in rumours about those whose deaths he was obliged to explore.

‘No,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘However, I am sure I do not need to remind you that all four voted for the Common Library. Damned villains! Of course, Vale only did it because Gonville does not have many medical books. Like Bartholomew, he was motivated by selfishness, despite the fact that approving such a venture might damage Michaelhouse.’

‘Now wait a moment,’ said William dangerously. ‘Matthew has already explained why he voted contrary to the rest of us: he followed his conscience.’

‘Then his conscience is wrong,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘But that is to be expected from a heretic.’

Bristling angrily, William began to defend Bartholomew, but was cut short by the arrival of Ralph de Langelee, the College’s Master. Langelee was a large, barrel-chested man, who did not look like a scholar, even in his academic robes, and whose previous career had involved acting as a henchman for the Archbishop of York. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, and Thelnetham was firmly of the opinion that he should return where he came from, although the other Fellows were satisfied with his careful, even-handed rule.

Langelee indicated that Cynric was to ring the bell again, then led his scholars up St Michael’s Lane towards the Collegiate church. Ayera hurried to walk next to him, muttering something that made him laugh, almost certainly an amusingly worded account of their colleagues’ latest squabble. Langelee and Ayera were friends, partly because – like Bartholomew – neither had taken major religious orders and both retained a healthy interest in women; and partly because they hailed from York and had known each other there.

‘I wish we had not elected Thelnetham as a Fellow,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear, as they took their place in the procession. Michaelhouse’s scholars were not supposed to talk as they went to church, but it was a rule the Fellows generally ignored.

‘Because he has an acid tongue?’ asked Bartholomew, rather offended that the Gilbertine should think he had supported the Common Library for selfish reasons, when he had actually been motivated by altruistic sympathy with his poorer colleagues.

‘Yes. Our conclave used to be a pleasant place, with no bickering or nastiness. But he has taken against William – and against you when he forgets that you mix an excellent tonic for biliousness – and the rest of us are caught in the middle.’

‘Michaelhouse is not the haven of peace it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. He jumped when a gate was slammed in nearby Ovyng Hostel, causing a crack like one of the Prince of Wales’s ribauldequins. Michael patted his shoulder sympathetically.

‘Do not worry, Matt. I will start looking for the three men who attacked you as soon as church is over. It will not be easy with no Junior Proctor, but I shall do my best.’

‘I doubt you will find them, not when I cannot furnish you with even the most basic of descriptions, and you have too much else to occupy your time. Forget them, Brother. I cannot see them trying again, not now they know I can– not give them what they want.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, unconvinced. He changed the subject. ‘I had a letter from my Bishop today, commenting on the ransoms that were demanded by our King for the French prisoners who were taken at Poitiers. Some have still not been paid.’

‘That is because they were so high,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘The one put on King Jean was at least twice France’s gross annual income. Moreover, the peasants resent being obliged to pay for the release of nobles who fail to protect them from English marauders, and the whole country is on the verge of a serious uprising.’

‘And all over a crown,’ sighed Michael. ‘I have no great love for the French, but I would not have wished this on them.’

Attendance at meals in Michaelhouse was obligatory, so after the morning mass – over in record time because William was officiating and he took pride in the speed at which he could gabble the sacred words – Langelee led the procession home. The scholars milled around in the yard, enjoying the early morning sunshine, until the bell sounded to announce that breakfast was ready. Then there was a concerted dash for the door. Michael was one of the first to thunder up the staircase to where the victuals were waiting, with Suttone and William not far behind: all three had healthy appetites.

‘I do not know why they are always so keen to be first,’ remarked Bartholomew to Clippesby. His stomach was still unsettled, and the thought of food was unappealing. ‘No one can start before the Master has said grace, and he does not do that until we are all standing in our places.’

Clippesby smiled. ‘But there is nothing to stop them from grabbing bread from the baskets while the rest of us are still climbing the stairs. Have you never noticed the crumbs?’

It had been so long since Bartholomew had arrived at a meal before the others that he had forgotten his more voracious colleagues’ penchant for the common victuals.

‘I hope that is not a rat,’ he said, looking at the whiskery nose that poked from the Dominican’s habit. ‘I will overlook frogs, snakes, rabbits, birds, pigs and even slugs. But not rats.’

‘What is wrong with rats?’ asked Clippesby, offended. ‘They mean us no harm.’

‘On the contrary – they invade granaries and were responsible for some of last winter’s starvation. Please do not bring it into the College again. It is hardly hygienic.’

‘But this one has something to report,’ objected Clippesby. ‘She knows a little about the four scholars who died in Newe Inn.’

The Dominican liked to roam the town after dark, communing with his furred and feathered friends. It meant he often witnessed dubious human behaviour, and had helped Michael’s enquiries several times in the past. Unfortunately, his unique way of reporting what he had learned made it difficult to separate fact from fiction.

‘She says they often met in Cholles Lane after dark,’ he went on. ‘Then they all slipped inside Newe Inn’s grounds together. But there were usually others with them.’

‘Who?’

‘She could not tell, because they were all cloaked and hooded. She cannot even say if they were men or women. She knows they took care to be quiet, though, and never let anyone see them.’

Cloaked and hooded, thought Bartholomew. Could they have included the three men who had attacked him the previous night? But virtually everyone in Cambridge possessed a cloak with a hood, and drawing conclusions from such attire was foolish and likely to be misleading.

‘I do not suppose she knows what these people did in Newe Inn, did she?’ he asked, although not with much hope. While Clippesby witnessed all manner of bizarre and inexplicable happenings, he was rarely moved to investigate them further. On the whole, Bartholomew was glad, because it might have been dangerous, and he was protective of the eccentric Dominican.

‘No. But it took them some time – they were gone for at least an hour. Sometimes longer.’

‘Were they in Newe Inn’s garden or in the house – the Common Library?’

Clippesby shrugged. ‘The rat cannot answer that, Matthew. All she saw was people entering the property via that little gate in the wall. She watched them gather on Tuesday night, in fact – Northwood, the Londons, Vale and one or two others. Incidentally, she has been watching Surgeon Holm, too. He has a lover, who visits him most evenings.’

‘Yes – Julitta Dunning. They are betrothed.’

‘They are betrothed,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But Julitta’s father would never allow his daughter to entertain him before they are married. Holm’s fancy is someone else.’

‘I do not want to know,’ said Bartholomew, holding up his hand. He had never liked gossip.

‘As you wish. But the rat will tell you, should you change your mind. She would like someone to warn Julitta, you see – to tell her that Holm will bring her pain if the marriage goes ahead. And I agree. As a priest, I could never sanction a union that will lead to such inevitable misery.’

As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew set his students an exercise to keep them busy while he went to St Mary the Great. He did not feel like examining bodies, and was developing a headache to go with his roiling stomach, so he only half listened to Michael talking about how he intended to solve the mystery surrounding the four deaths. However, he snapped into alertness when he became aware that the monk was making plans on his behalf.

‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ he objected. ‘My students are taking their final disputations soon, and they are not yet ready for–’

‘They are better prepared than any class in the University,’ countered Michael. ‘And if they are lacking in some vital area, it is too late to correct it now. You are not needed as they re-read the texts they have already studied, and your presence will only make them nervous. It would be kinder if you let them be.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Bartholomew, a little indignantly.

‘I mean that you have unreasonably high expectations, and the pressure may have an adverse effect. Let them revise without interference, and help me instead. It will be better for everyone.’

‘But–’

‘No buts, Matt. You have become a tyrant in the lecture hall, and it is time to stop. You cannot push them as hard as you push yourself.’

Bartholomew was about to deny the charge when he recalled that his students had accused him of intimidating them on occasion. Moreover, Michael was right in that there was no point in trying to teach them anything new now, and his senior students were more than capable of reading exemplars to the others. He supposed, reluctantly, that he could afford to let them relax a little.

‘If there was foul play, then I would like to see the killer brought to justice,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘I liked Northwood, and Vale was a colleague.’

‘You did not like Vale, too?’ pounced Michael, too astute not to notice the careful wording of his friend’s capitulation.

Bartholomew hesitated, but supposed Michael had a right to know his opinion of the man whose death he was going to explore. ‘I thought him unsuited to our profession. He lacked tact, and he behaved inappropriately with female patients.’

‘Did he?’ Michael was intrigued. ‘I know Edith said he made a nuisance of himself with her seamstresses, while Jorz claimed he laughed at an embarrassing ailment.’

‘He was more interested in devising a cure-all than in his patients,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It meant he did not take the time to listen to their symptoms before prescribing a solution, and he sometimes made mistakes. He was not a very good physician.’

‘Well, we shall bear his failings in mind as we investigate. Of course, I still have Coslaye to consider, too. I promised to catch the villain who nearly killed him.’

‘I imagine that was an accident – the tome was thrown more in frustration than a serious attempt to wound. Besides, it was weeks ago. Any trail will be cold by now.’

‘It was cold before I started, or the villain would have been arrested already. However, a crime is a crime, and I am unwilling to forget that one. I do not want scholars thinking that St Mary the Great is a good venue for lobbing missiles at colleagues who make contentious remarks.’

‘It is fortunate that Coslaye has an unusually thick skull, or the blow would have killed him outright. Even so, I was afraid that he would not survive the surgery. He was very lucky.’

‘The collision damaged the book, too,’ recalled Michael. ‘Acton’s Questio Disputata. Not a great treatise, but respectable enough. I gave it to him once he was up and walking again, as compensation for all his suffering.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking this a little insensitive.

‘I thought he could sell it for– Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and he wears the expression that tells me something terrible has happened. Again.’

‘You are both needed at King’s Hall,’ announced Cynric. ‘Master Sawtre has had an accident.’

‘What sort of accident?’ asked Michael warily.

‘Apparently,’ replied Cynric, ‘he has been crushed under a bookcase.’

It was not far along the High Street to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most prestigious College. It enjoyed the patronage of the King himself, and the sons of nobles were sent to it for their education. It was an impressive foundation, with a great gatehouse and powerful walls that would protect it from all but the most determined attacks – and as its ostentatious affluence was infuriating to many townsfolk, defence was a necessity. Behind the gate were several handsome accommodation blocks, an assortment of houses and a large hall for teaching.

A porter conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the building that housed the College’s collection of books. Somewhat unusually, King’s Hall had elected to store them in purpose-built, ceiling-high racks – most University foundations preferred their shelving to be nearer the ground for ease of access. The racks were heavy, especially when filled, and one had toppled forward, shooting its contents across the floor. All that could be seen of the man underneath was a hand. Bartholomew knelt quickly and felt for a life-beat, but the wrist was cold and dead.

At least twenty King’s Hall Fellows had gathered around the corpse in a mute semicircle. In the middle was their Warden, a timid, retiring gentleman, who struggled to control the large number of arrogant, wealthy young men under his supervision. Walkelate was there, too, tearful and frightened, and Bartholomew recalled that the architect and Sawtre were the only two members of King’s Hall who had voted in favour of the Common Library. He felt a twinge of unease, recalling what Deynman had said about dissenters being eliminated.

‘We could see that there was no need to pull Sawtre out quickly,’ said Warden Shropham, breaking into his troubled thoughts. ‘So we left everything as we found it, for you to …’

He trailed off, clearly distressed, and a brash scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as great as he thought it was, came to rest a kindly hand on his shoulder.

‘Sawtre was dusting the shelves,’ Dodenho explained. ‘Which was his particular responsibility. We heard a crash, and rushed in to see the bookcase had torn away from its moorings.’

He pointed, and Bartholomew and Michael both looked upwards. There were six sizeable holes in the wall, and when they glanced back to the bookcase, it was to see six corresponding nails jutting out from the back of it.

‘He must have tugged on it, reaching for the top shelf,’ said Walkelate, pale and shaking. ‘The floor is not very level, you see, and there was always a danger that this particular unit might topple.’

‘Then why did you not do something about it?’ asked Michael, prodding the floorboards with his toe. They were indeed uneven.

‘We were going to,’ said Shropham wretchedly. ‘At the end of term, when our students have finished their disputations. Mending it will be noisy, and we wanted to avoid needless disturbance at such a stressful time.’

A number of Fellows stepped forward to lift the rack, eager to play their part for a fallen comrade. It was extremely weighty, and required every one of them. Once it was upright, Bartholomew began removing the books that covered Sawtre’s body, picking them up carefully and handing them to Dodenho, who piled them neatly and lovingly to one side.

Despite the fact that his mind should have been on the duties for which he was being paid, the physician noticed that King’s Hall had some unusual and beautiful volumes, including several on medicine that he had never read. He wondered if Shropham would grant him access to them, but then thought that he might not have to ask if the Common Library lived up to expectations.

‘I wonder if it is divine justice,’ mused Dodenho, brushing dust from Dante’s Inferno. ‘Sawtre voted inappropriately at the Convocation, and now he is dead in the very library he wronged.’

‘He did not wrong this library,’ objected Walkelate. He sounded dispirited: like Bartholomew, he was tired of repeating himself to colleagues who were so vehemently and immovably opposed to his point of view. ‘He supported the founding of a central repository because he felt poor scholars deserve access to books, too.’

‘You would say that,’ muttered Dodenho. ‘You voted with him – against our Warden’s orders.’

‘Actually, I told everyone to act as his conscience dictated,’ said Shropham quietly.

‘Quite,’ said Dodenho. ‘My conscience would never let me do anything to harm King’s Hall.’

Other Fellows joined the discussion, but Bartholomew was not listening – he had finally moved enough books to allow him to examine the body. He was vaguely aware of the debate growing acrimonious, and of Michael standing silently to one side, drawing his own conclusions from who said what, but his own attention was on Sawtre.

‘He was crushed,’ he said, eventually finishing his examination and standing up. Immediately, the squabbling stopped and the men of King’s Hall eased closer to hear his verdict. ‘The bookcase landed squarely on his chest, and its weight snapped the ribs beneath. These pierced his lungs. I imagine death came very quickly.’

‘Thank God for small mercies,’ said Shropham, crossing himself.

Walkelate began to sob, so Dodenho put an arm around his shoulders and led him away, leaving the remaining Fellows to discuss what had happened in shocked whispers.

‘Was it a mishap, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Or did one of Sawtre’s “grieving” colleagues arrange an accident in order to punish him for dissenting?’

‘They seem genuinely distressed to me,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And there is nothing on the body to suggest foul play – no sign that Sawtre was forced to stand under the case while it was toppled, or that he was incapacitated while the deed was done.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But he makes five Regents dead who voted in favour of the Common Library. If we held a second ballot now, the grace would be repealed.’

‘Then it is just as well a second ballot is not in the offing,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Newe Inn is almost ready, and there would be a riot if you abandoned the project at this late hour.’

‘I have a bad feeling we shall have one of those anyway. Its more rabid detractors will not let the opening ceremonies pass off without incident.’

There was no more to be done at King’s Hall, so Bartholomew wrapped Sawtre’s body, ready to be carried to the church, and followed Michael towards the gate. Shropham accompanied them.

‘I know how this looks,’ he said, when there was no one to overhear. ‘Sawtre went against his colleagues, and now he is dead. However, it was an accident.’

‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yet you cannot deny that there was ill feeling among the Fellowship towards him. And despite what you said in the library, I am sure you must have made it perfectly clear how you wanted them all to vote.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘I am not a despot. I instructed every man to act as he thought appropriate. I imagine you did the same at Michaelhouse.’

‘Actually, I told my colleagues to oppose the grace with every fibre of their being,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at Bartholomew. ‘But not all of them obeyed.’

‘It must be awkward for Walkelate here,’ said Bartholomew, pitying the kindly architect for the uncomfortable position he occupied, especially now he had lost Sawtre’s support. ‘He not only voted for the library, but he is the one fitting it out.’

Shropham sighed. ‘Well, if we must have the wretched place, it is only right that the University’s best architect should design it. Walkelate produced a book-depository for the King, you know, in Westminster.’

‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘Are there many books in the royal collections?’

Shropham gave one of his sad smiles. ‘None that will interest you, Matthew. They nearly all pertain to law and property.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So how did Walkelate come to be chosen for such a task?’

‘Because his father is the King’s sergeant-at-arms,’ explained Shropham. ‘So Walkelate is known at Court, and the Lord Chancellor is a great admirer of his work.’

‘You mean his father is a soldier?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael shot him a patronising look. ‘It is an honorific post, Matt. They see to ceremonials and the like. It has nothing to do with warfare.’

‘Although Walkelate did receive knightly training in his youth,’ added Shropham. ‘But like most of us, that was rather a long time ago.’

Once out of King’s Hall, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their walk to St Mary the Great, and it was not long before they reached its bright splendour. Sunlight filtered through its stained-glass windows, casting bright flecks of colour on the stone floor, and there was a pleasant aroma of incense and from the greenery that bedecked its windowsills.

The four bodies had been placed in the Lady Chapel, where they lay in a line on the floor, each covered with a blanket. Water had seeped from them during the night, leaving puddles. Michael watched Bartholomew remove the cover from the first victim, but promptly disappeared on business of his own when the physician began his examination by prising open the corpse’s mouth. As Senior Proctor, he had an office in one of the aisles – larger and better furnished than the one occupied by the Chancellor, as befitted his status as the University’s most powerful scholar – and it was a far nicer place to be than watching his Corpse Examiner at work.

Bartholomew had started with Vale, because he happened to be the nearest. Deftly, he removed his colleague’s clothes, so he could look for injuries or suspicious marks, but there was only one: the puncture wound between his shoulder blades. The arrow’s shaft had been snipped off to facilitate transport the previous day, but its head was still in place, and he was surprised by how easy it was to remove. Puzzled, he took a probe and inserted it into the hole. The laceration was shallow, and unlikely to have been fatal.

He turned Vale on to his back, and pushed on his chest – if froth bubbled from the nose and mouth, it meant water had mixed with air in the lungs. In other words, the victim had drowned. But what seeped from Vale was clear, and there was not a bubble in sight. He began a more systematic examination, looking for evidence of disease or other injuries. There was an ancient scar on Vale’s knee, but nothing else was apparent.

Trying not to let his bafflement influence him, he moved to the next corpse, which was the older of the two London brothers. Again, there was no evidence of drowning. The younger sibling yielded an equally curious lack of symptoms, and so did Northwood.

When he had done all he could, Bartholomew replaced their clothes, then sat back on his heels and stared at the corpses in confusion. How had they died? Could they have swallowed poison? But then how had they all ended up in Newe Inn’s pond?

Absently, he took a knife from his bag, wondering whether anyone would notice if he made a small incision to inspect the inside of one of the victims’ stomachs. He had never done such a thing before, but he had witnessed a dissection in Salerno where a case of poisoning had been discovered by a mass of ulcers in the innards. There had been no external symptoms, and the killer might have escaped justice had it not been for the skill of the anatomist.

But defiling the dead was frowned upon in England, although Bartholomew considered it a foolish restriction, because much could be learned from cadavers. Without conscious thought, the knife in his hand descended towards Vale’s middle.

‘What are you doing?’ came an incredulous voice behind him.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet and spun around to find himself facing Dunning and Julitta. Dunning’s aristocratic face was pale with horror, although Julitta seemed composed.

‘Examining these bodies,’ he replied, aware that his voice was far from steady. It was partly because Dunning’s loud question had made him jump, but mostly because he had been a hair’s breadth from doing something recklessly grisly. He was horrified with himself, not for almost giving in to the urge to delve into the forbidden art of anatomy, but for coming so close to doing it in St Mary the Great.

‘With a knife?’ demanded Dunning sceptically.

‘If he is to conduct a thorough examination, he must remove their clothes, Father,’ said Julitta reasonably. ‘Obviously, the blade is to deal with stubborn laces.’

‘What is wrong with untying them?’ asked Dunning, still unconvinced.

‘They have been immersed in water,’ explained Julitta patiently. ‘And water causes knots to tighten. You know this.’

Bartholomew stared at her, noting the way her fine kirtle hugged the slim lines of her body and her hair caught the sunlight from the windows. When she smiled at him, he found himself thinking that Surgeon Holm was a very lucky man.

‘Well, it looked to me as though he was going to take a lump out of Vale,’ Dunning was saying, disgust vying for precedence with horror in his voice. ‘There are tales that say he is in league with the Devil, and I know such men need bits of corpses for their diabolical spells.’

‘Doctor Bartholomew is not a sorcerer,’ said Julitta firmly, while Bartholomew continued to gaze gratefully at her. ‘That is a silly story put about by the likes of my brother-in-law. I am fond of Weasenham, but he really is the most dreadful gossip.’

‘He is,’ conceded Dunning. ‘But he was a good match for Ruth, so I am not complaining.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘So have you learned anything from these hapless corpses yet? They died in the property I have donated to your University, so I have a right to ask.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Michael, who had heard voices and had come to investigate. ‘And you shall have a full account as soon as my Corpse Examiner has written his official report. Would you like me to bring it to your house later? Perhaps close to the time your dinner is served?’

Julitta’s eyes widened at the brazen hint, and she smothered a smile. ‘You are welcome to dine with us, Brother,’ she said graciously. ‘And Doctor Bartholomew must come, too, lest we have any technical questions.’

‘But I want to know what he has surmised now,’ objected her father.

‘Of course you do, but he has not finished yet,’ said Julitta. ‘And we must visit the Market Square, to ask the baker to increase the amount of bread we dispense to the poor. Summer might be here at last, but the crops are still far from ripe, and they need our charity more than ever now their winter supplies are exhausted.’

‘You are lucky Julitta has a quick brain and an eye for a pretty face,’ said Michael, once she and Dunning had gone. His green eyes were wide with shock. ‘I saw exactly what you were going to do with that knife. No, do not deny it, Matt! It was obvious. What in God’s name were you thinking?’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘I was not thinking, Brother. I do not feel well, and my wits are like mud this morning.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did those men hurt you when they attacked last night?’

‘No – I swallowed too much of Newe Inn’s pond. It is not healthy to drink water that contains corpses. In fact, it is not healthy to drink water at all, unless it has been thoroughly boiled and–’

‘None of your wild theories today, please,’ interrupted Michael, still angry. ‘However, I would like to know what you have learned about our victims.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘There are no injuries – the arrow wound in Vale is superficial – and they were not suffering from any obvious diseases or ailments.’

‘They drowned, then. They fell or were pushed into the pond.’

‘They did not drown. The only other thing I can think of is poison, which was why I …’ Bartholomew waved the hand that still held the knife.

Michael looked away quickly. ‘Surely, there is a better way to find out than dissection?’

‘Not that I am aware: there is nothing in their mouths to suggest they swallowed a toxin, and no marks on their hands. However, they may have ingested something that damaged their stomachs or lungs, but that will only be determined by an internal examination.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘There will be no anatomising in my jurisdiction.’

‘Then I can tell you no more, Brother. Externally, there is nothing to suggest anything other than natural deaths.’

‘All four of them? At the same time? I do not think so!’

‘And they did all die at roughly the same time.’ Bartholomew turned to stare at the bodies again. ‘Clippesby saw them entering Newe Inn’s grounds together on Tuesday night, and Browne found them dead on Wednesday morning.’

Michael rubbed his chin, fingers rasping on the bristles. ‘What about communal suicide?’

‘Four men agreeing to take their own lives simultaneously would have had a very strong reason for doing so, and that reason is likely to have been explained in a note or a message left with friends. There was no such missive, or you would have mentioned it. Moreover, your theory does not explain why Vale was shot.’

‘The arrow,’ pounced Michael. ‘Perhaps they were forced to jump into the pond.’

‘Then they would have drowned, which they did not. However, you are right in that it means someone else was there when they died – someone who put their corpses in the water. And Clippesby saw them enter the garden with one or two other people …’

‘And other people, at least one of whom was armed with a bow, means murder.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I am afraid you will have to ask the culprits how they dispatched their victims, because your Corpse Examiner cannot do it.’

‘I shall,’ determined Michael. ‘Your point about a message left with friends is an interesting concept, though. We shall spend the rest of the morning questioning those who knew them best.’

‘You did not do that last night after leaving Weasenham?’

‘No – I was busy quelling a fight between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel over the Common Library. So first we shall visit Weasenham’s shop, to ask about the London brothers. Then Gonville Hall to enquire after Vale. And finally the Carmelite Friary regarding Northwood.’

Bartholomew fell into step at his side, and they walked along the High Street to the stationer’s premises. It was full of activity as usual, crammed with scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without paying for them, some passing the time of day with friends, and others queuing up to be served. Weasenham was with a customer, so Bartholomew and Michael were obliged to wait. While they did so, the monk took a leaf out of Weasenham’s book, and began to gossip.

‘Our stationer did well when he married Ruth Dunning.’

‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was more interested in Weasenham’s wares, wishing he had funds to spare. He needed more parchment for the treatise on fevers he was writing, and he was running low on ink, too. Unfortunately, any money he earned was needed to buy medicine for those of his patients who could not afford it themselves, and luxuries like writing equipment were currently beyond his means.

‘Oh, yes. Dunning will invest handsomely in the business now, which will allow Weasenham to expand. In fact, I think he already has, because look at the number of books that are on sale today. He never had that many in the past. He even has Augustine’s De Trinitate!’

‘And Dioscorides’s De Materia Medica.’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘I have not seen that in its entirety for years. Perhaps this copy is destined for the Common Library, and I shall be able to read it. Or maybe Holm will give me five marks, so I can buy it for myself.’

‘Five marks? Why would he give you such an enormous sum?’

‘When he learns that Isnard and the riverfolk are not killers and smugglers,’ replied Bartholomew. He shrugged when he saw Michael’s mystified expression. ‘He irritated me into agreeing a wager.’

‘But you do not have five marks!’ cried Michael. ‘And you will certainly need it, because Isnard is a scoundrel, and you are a fool if you think him untarnished. And as for the riverfolk …’

‘Yes, but they do not kill,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘And I do not believe they are connected with the smugglers Dick Tulyet is hunting, either.’

‘We had better speak to Weasenham,’ said Michael, declining to argue. ‘He is still busy, but I cannot wait here all day. Who knows what else you may do or say to shock me in the interim?’

Weasenham was at the front of his shop, standing behind a table as he demonstrated to a group of fascinated scribes why quills made from swan feathers were better than those from geese. His audience comprised mostly friars who worked in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and included Riborowe and Jorz. He was being assisted by his wife and his Exemplarius.

‘Two birds with one stone,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You can quiz the White Friars about Northwood at the same time.’

‘No – it is better to tackle them separately. Look at Jorz’s hands! Are they stained with blood? We had better loiter behind these shelves for a while. We could learn a lot by eavesdropping.’

‘… did not succeed,’ Jorz was twittering to Weasenham. ‘I tried adding red lead, to see if that would help, but the ink took just as long to dry. How goes your paper-making?’

‘We have done nothing since we heard that John and Philip London …’ Bonabes swallowed hard. ‘We shall start experimenting again after their funerals.’

The birdlike Jorz crossed himself. ‘Perhaps we should suspend our work until after our brother Northwood is buried, as a mark of respect. What do you think, Riborowe?’

‘Why?’ asked Riborowe. ‘He voted against our Prior’s orders in the matter of the Common Library, and I have still not forgiven him for it.’

‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Weasenham in a conspiratorial voice, while the other Carmelites gaped their shock at Riborowe’s unfeeling remark. ‘About the murder of Sawtre in King’s Hall? Someone pushed a heavy bookcase on top of him, and–’

‘Warden Shropham said it was an accident,’ interrupted Bonabes. ‘He stated quite firmly that Sawtre tugged on a piece of furniture that was notoriously unstable.’

‘Well, he would,’ said Weasenham maliciously. ‘But I know better. Sawtre was killed because he voted against his College. King’s Hall does not take kindly to treachery.’

‘That is untrue!’ cried Ruth. ‘Sawtre was–’

‘Tell me what you know about the Newe Inn murders,’ said Weasenham, cutting across her to address the Carmelites, all of whom were regarding him with contempt. They exchanged pained glances at the mention of the place where one of their brethren had died.

‘We know nothing at all,’ replied Jorz. ‘A beadle came last night to report Northwood’s death, but he was unable to tell us how or why it had happened. And since then, Prior Etone has kept us too busy saying masses for Northwood’s soul to ask questions.’

‘And busy making ink, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. Michael jabbed him with his elbow, warning him to be quiet.

‘Does Northwood’s soul need prayers, then?’ fished Weasenham. ‘I imagine it does – I have heard tales about him.’

Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm as the physician began to step forward, unwilling to stand by while a man he had liked was maligned.

‘Northwood was a hard taskmaster to the novices under his care,’ Jorz was saying icily, while behind his back several of the younger friars exchanged glances that indicated this was an understatement. ‘But he was honest and fair. There will be no “tales” about him.’

‘Oh, yes, there will,’ said Weasenham smugly. ‘Because he was a thief.’

Michael’s grip intensified when Bartholomew started forward a second time. ‘Wait!’ he hissed. ‘Thelnetham said much the same, and I want to hear what Weasenham has to say.’

‘Husband, please,’ begged Ruth. ‘Northwood is dead, and it is not nice to speak ill of him.’

‘I speak as I find,’ snapped Weasenham, displeased by the admonition. ‘There is a ridiculous tendency in this town to think that anyone who dies before his time was a saint. Well, Northwood did some very devious things, and the fact that he suffered a premature end does not change that.’

‘And what did he do, exactly?’ asked Jorz, frost in his voice.

Well,’ began Weasenham, delighted to be asked, ‘it involves the exemplars your novices prepare in the scriptorium.’

‘The Carmelites do not produce exemplars,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, bemused. ‘They create beautiful works of art – bibles, prayer books and psalters.’

‘Exercise pieces.’ Riborowe’s expression was as puzzled as Michael’s. ‘To allow them to hone their skills. It was my idea: I remember from my own noviciate how disheartening it was to produce texts that no one ever looked at, so I decided that they should copy parts of great theological works instead. Then we can sell them to you, and the money covers the cost of the materials they use, with a little left over for the poor. But why do you–’

‘They produced two last week,’ interrupted Weasenham. ‘And I paid for both. However, when I mentioned the matter to Prior Etone, it became clear that Northwood had only handed him the cash for one of them. He had kept the rest for himself.’

‘No,’ said Jorz firmly. ‘You are mistaken. Northwood would not have done that.’

‘He told us that the work on one of the exemplars was substandard,’ said Riborowe, ‘and thus unfit to be sold. He only brought the better copy here …’

‘No, he brought two, and the work on both was excellent,’ gloated Weasenham. ‘I can show you if you like. Fetch them, Bonabes.’

‘No,’ said Jorz stiffly. ‘We do not want to see. Come, brothers. We are finished here.’

The door closed after them with a resounding crack.

‘There will be an explanation for what Northwood is accused of doing,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, refusing to believe ill of the man. ‘Weasenham has a nasty way of twisting even the most innocuous of incidents. He is a malign force, and I wish the University would oust him.’

‘Unfortunately, we need more than a penchant for intrigue to deprive him of his livelihood. Rumour-mongering is despicable, but not illegal, no matter what you think of it.’

Weasenham’s sly face became eager when he saw Michael and Bartholomew, anticipating that they would supply him with more information to fuel his scurrilous tongue. Next to him, Ruth hung her head, while Bonabes grimaced.

‘I suppose you are here to provide details about the London brothers,’ Weasenham said. ‘Good. I am distressed by their demise, and demand to know what happened to them.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael flatly. ‘But I need information before I can furnish you with answers. What can you tell me about them?’

Weasenham looked disappointed, but began to oblige, always ready to talk about someone else. ‘They worked with me for years, and we rubbed along nicely together. I shall miss them, although not nearly as much as Adam. He was cheap, whereas I was obliged to pay them a decent wage.’

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Michael, unimpressed. ‘Or is that it?’

‘Well, they were sanctimonious,’ Weasenham went on. ‘They told me I was a gossip, which was unfair. All I do is share information with friends. Where lies the harm in that?’

‘They had no family, other than each other, and they lived in the house next door,’ supplied Bonabes, rather more practically. ‘They were polite and kind, but tended to keep to themselves.’

‘Did they know Northwood or Vale?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Ruth who answered. ‘Yes, they often met Northwood when he came to purchase supplies for the Carmelite Priory, and they occasionally enjoyed a drink together in the Brazen George. Northwood liked to tell them his alchemical theories, and they liked to listen.’

‘Did they understand them?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Northwood devised some very lofty hypotheses, most of which left me bemused. And I am as razor-witted as any man.’

‘Because they were interested, he took the time to explain,’ replied Ruth. ‘Besides, they were scholars themselves – members of Batayl Hostel, albeit non-residential ones.’

‘Philosophers by training,’ elaborated Bonabes. ‘They stepped in to teach the trivium when Coslaye was injured. Master Browne said they were invaluable during that difficult time.’

‘And they died in the property that adjoins that particular foundation,’ mused Michael. ‘I must make time to visit Batayl and ask a few questions.’

‘The brothers and Northwood were often in each other’s company,’ added Weasenham eager not to be left out of the discussion. ‘In fact, I would say he was their only friend. As Bonabes said, they kept to themselves.’

‘What about Vale?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did they know him?’

Ruth looked away, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Yes. They were his patients, as were we.’

‘We asked him to be our medicus the moment he arrived,’ elaborated Weasenham. ‘We had been with Doctor Rougham, but he is expensive these days. Not to mention arrogant.’

‘Why Vale?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not Gyseburne or Meryfeld?’

‘Because Gyseburne’s interest in urine is unsavoury, and Meryfeld is never clean,’ replied Weasenham. He shot Bartholomew an arch glance. ‘And we would never agree to be treated by him, because he is a warlock. The whole town knows it, and while he might well save more lives than the other physicians, I do not like the notion of him summoning the Devil on my behalf.’

‘The story about Doctor Bartholomew’s pact with Satan is a stupid rumour concocted by the ignorant,’ said Ruth spiritedly. Bartholomew regarded her with surprise, unused to people coming to his defence. He wondered whether she had been conferring with her sister about him.

‘Were Philip and John London in low spirits?’ asked Michael, changing the subject before Weasenham could argue. ‘Or did they ever discuss taking their own lives?’

‘No,’ said Ruth, shocked. ‘They were perfectly content.’

‘And excited about making paper,’ added Weasenham. ‘You do not commit self-murder if you have an enthralling project to hand. You are wrong if you think they were suicidal, Brother.’

‘Everyone is experimenting these days,’ mused Ruth. ‘The Londons with paper, the White Friars with ink, Vale with his cure-all, the medical men with lamp fuel …’

Absently, Bartholomew imagined what her list might sound like to outside ears. People would assume that Cambridge was full of mad intellectuals, all busily hurling ingredients into cauldrons as they pursued their lunatic theories.

‘Yes – that deputation of scholars from Oxford back in January has a lot to answer for,’ muttered Weasenham unpleasantly. ‘We were more interested in reading books than in conducting experiments before they came along with the smug implication that they were better than us because of their scientific discoveries.’

Michael asked several more questions, but neither Bonabes nor Ruth could add anything more of interest, and Weasenham’s opinions were unreliable, so he and Bartholomew took their leave.

‘As we are here, we should look in the London brothers’ home,’ said Michael. ‘They have no next-of-kin to object to a search, and my beadle obtained the key last night.’

They walked to the cottage next door. It had been given an attractive wash of pale yellow, and was well maintained. Michael unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He gave a squawk of alarm when a shadow flitted across the room, and Bartholomew fumbled for his childbirth forceps. But then the figure stepped into the light, and both recognised it instantly. Bartholomew’s heart sank.

It was Michael’s formidable grandmother, Dame Pelagia. And if she was in Cambridge, then there was trouble afoot for certain.