Murder by the Book

Chapter 4

‘Grandmother!’ exclaimed Michael, shoving past Bartholomew and going to take the old lady’s hands in his own. There was genuine delight in his voice.

Dame Pelagia was tiny, with a wrinkled face and white hair that was tucked decorously under a matronly wimple. She had unfathomable eyes that twinkled like shiny buttons, and an enigmatic smile. At a glance, she was an elderly gentlewoman, but appearances could be deceptive, and Bartholomew knew for a fact that she had spent the greater part of her life spying for the various monarchs through whose reigns she had lived. She was also ruthlessly skilled with knives.

‘It was you who saved me last night,’ he said in sudden understanding. ‘When those men cornered me.’

Pelagia inclined her head. ‘I thought you might appreciate a little help.’

‘Did you know them?’ asked Michael, surprised.

‘Unfortunately not, but dead men keep their secrets, so I took care only to maim them. They will be easy to identify from their limps, and then they can be arrested and questioned properly.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael. ‘I am pleased to see you, of course, but I thought you had gone to southern France, to live in quiet retirement in a place where the sun shines every day.’

‘Paradise can be tedious,’ replied Pelagia. Bartholomew had no idea whether she was making a joke. ‘Besides, France is not very friendly to the English at the moment. Not after Poitiers.’

Bartholomew regarded her sharply. ‘Do not tell me you were there? At the battle?’

Pelagia favoured him with one of her impenetrable smiles. ‘I may have been in the vicinity.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, staggered but not entirely surprised.

‘You have not answered my question,’ said Michael. ‘Why are you here?’

Pelagia reached up to pat his plump cheek with a wizened hand. ‘Can I not visit my favourite grandson without an inquisition? Besides, I am to celebrate living three score years and ten next week, and there is no one in the world with whom I would rather mark the occasion.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘However, that still does not explain what you are doing in the home of two men who died in mysterious circumstances. How did you get in?’

‘The door was open.’ Bartholomew and Michael both knew it had been locked, but neither liked to contradict her. ‘And I heard that this cottage might be sold soon, given that its owners are dead. I have a mind to settle in this little town of yours, so I decided to inspect it.’

‘But it is dark in here,’ said Michael. ‘Why not open the window shutters? Or light a lamp?’

‘Because I have only just arrived,’ explained Pelagia evenly. ‘But you may kindle one now, and we shall explore the place together. Then you can decide whether you think it is suitable for me.’

She gestured imperiously that Bartholomew was to oblige with the lantern, then held out her arm for Michael to escort her to a bench. She leaned heavily on him, although Bartholomew could tell by the way she moved that it was a pretence of frailty, and that she was probably as fit as her grandson, and almost certainly a good deal more agile.

The lamp illuminated a pleasantly furnished chamber with a sizeable hearth at its far end, and while Michael and Pelagia discussed family affairs, Bartholomew prowled, looking for something that might tell him why two respectable scribes should have died in an abandoned pond. Several books on alchemy lay on a table, and when he opened one he saw it had been heavily annotated. Some of the scribbles were in Northwood’s distinctively untidy hand, but others were neat, and he suspected they were the work of either Philip or John.

He conducted as thorough a search as he could, tapping floorboards, peering up the chimney and running his fingers along the backs of shelves, but found nothing of relevance. However, as he finished, it occurred to him that Pelagia had not offered to help – and he was sure it was not because she trusted his investigative skills. He could only suppose that she had already ascertained that there was nothing to find. Unless there had been something, and she had removed it, of course.

He shook his head in response to Michael’s questioning gaze, but Dame Pelagia said nothing, and he glanced warily at her. Could she have been responsible for the Newe Inn deaths? He knew she had taken lives before, and that she had done so without leaving a shred of evidence, but why would she want to dispatch two scribes, a Carmelite and a physician? He decided to ask her some questions, although he suspected he would be wasting his breath; Pelagia was not a woman who willingly shared information, or who incriminated herself with such replies as she did choose to give.

‘The men who attacked me last night wanted to know the formula for a certain substance,’ he began, staring hard in an effort to read her. It was futile, of course. ‘Do you think the same villains might have killed Northwood, the London brothers and Vale?’

‘That is a wild leap of logic!’ exclaimed Michael, startled. ‘Why would–’

‘Hooded cloaks,’ explained Bartholomew tersely. ‘I know that virtually everyone in Cambridge owns one, but it is summer, and most people have packed them away. However, Clippesby told me that Northwood and the others wore them when they met. So did the men who ambushed me last night.’

‘It is a slender connection,’ said Pelagia, rather contemptuously. ‘I doubt that line of enquiry will take you very far. But what formula did they want from you? A recipe for a new medicine?’

‘It was meant to be lamp fuel,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘But instead, my medical colleagues and I discovered something that is highly flammable and difficult to douse once it is alight.’

‘Wildfire,’ mused Pelagia. ‘It has been around for centuries in various forms. But it is a nasty form of warfare, and you should have been more careful in your experiments, Matthew.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew, chagrined. ‘Unfortunately, the incident was witnessed by Sheriff Tulyet’s talkative young son, and the other physicians have also spread the tale. Ergo, a lot of people know what we did, so I cannot be sure whether my attackers were local or strangers …’

‘They all should have kept their mouths shut,’ said Pelagia, and Bartholomew flinched at the sharp censure in her voice. ‘It is not something that should have been bandied about. We are at war, you know, and we cannot have that sort of secret falling into the hands of the French.’

‘Luckily, the medici were too drunk to recall what they did, so the recipe is lost,’ said Michael quickly. ‘Last night’s villains will never learn anything deadly from them.’

‘Is that so?’ Pelagia regarded Bartholomew icily, causing him to understand exactly why she had been feared by so many enemies of the English crown. ‘You had better take care the next time you are out after dark, because a secret of that magnitude will certainly warrant these rogues trying to get it again. It will be worth a lot of money.’

She stood and made for the door, moving with a sprightliness that belied her years. Once outside, she nodded a farewell to her grandson and turned towards Bridge Street. A cart blocked her from sight momentarily, and when it had passed, she was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew realised that he had been holding his breath, uncomfortable as always in such a ruthlessly formidable presence.

‘Do you think the next attack on me will come from her?’ he asked, following Michael out of the house and watching him secure the door behind them. ‘She is not very pleased.’

‘No, she is not,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I do not blame her. What you did with your colleagues last winter was recklessly dangerous.’

‘Did she tell you why she is really here?’ asked Bartholomew, declining to dwell on it. ‘Because it will not be to celebrate her birthday with you.’

‘Not her seventieth, anyway,’ said Michael. ‘She passed that some years ago. All I can say is that if it is serious enough to warrant leaving her comfortable retirement, then it must be serious indeed. And it will involve some very powerful adversaries.’

There was more than enough time to visit Gonville Hall and the Carmelite Priory before they joined Dunning for dinner, so they retraced their steps along the High Street. Gonville was another wealthy foundation, and was in the process of building itself a chapel. Progress was slow, and although it had walls and a roof, it was still a long way from completion. Rougham chafed at the delay, because he had designed some stained-glass windows that he was eager to see installed, one of which depicted him in his physician’s robes.

They were conducted across a yard to the hall, where the Fellows were teaching. Bartholomew listened for a moment, unimpressed by the standard of the arguments in the mock-disputation that was under way. He sincerely hoped Rougham’s students would put on a better show when they took their final examinations, because otherwise they would fail.

After a while, Rougham became aware of the visitors, and came to greet them. The other Fellows started to follow, but Rougham, as Acting Master, waved them away.

‘I shall deal with this,’ he announced. ‘The rest of you can continue teaching. My students have just set the standard for which you must aim, and if yours are not as good as mine in a week, there will be trouble.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, but snapped it closed when Michael elbowed him. The monk was right: Rougham was easily offended, and would not cooperate with their investigation if they fell out with him.

‘You look terrible, Bartholomew,’ Rougham said, peering at his colleague in concern. ‘Have you come to me for a remedy? Shall I whip you up a syrup of snail juice and frogs’ blood?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily.

‘He toppled into Newe Inn’s pond yesterday, trying to retrieve Vale and the others,’ explained Michael. ‘And inhaling corpse water is evidently not recommended for good health.’

‘Try drinking a quart of strong claret mixed with half a pound of salt, six raw eggs and a couple of bulbs of garlic,’ advised Rougham. ‘That should purge any cadaver-poisons from your system.’

Bartholomew felt sick just thinking about it.

‘I am deeply sorry about Vale,’ began Michael, after Rougham had escorted them out of the hall and into a comfortable solar, where they could speak without being disturbed.

‘So am I,’ said Rougham. ‘It was pleasant, having a fellow medicus with whom to converse. We did not always see eye to eye, but he was a stimulating companion, and I shall miss him.’

‘Do you know why he was in Newe Inn with the Londons and Northwood?’ Michael asked.

‘I do not,’ replied Rougham. ‘However, he was too superior a man to have dabbled in low company freely, so I can only assume that they seduced him there under false pretences.’

‘Northwood was not low company,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He was an excellent scholar.’

‘Perhaps so, but he bullied the novice scribes in his scriptorium, and he was unpleasantly fanatical about his alchemy,’ replied Rougham. ‘He was not the genial philosopher-friar he liked everyone to see. He was ambitious and ruthless, and I think he led Vale astray.’

‘How?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could take issue with the remark.

Rougham scowled. ‘I strongly suspect he was working on lamp fuel.’

‘Lamp fuel?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You mean he was in competition with us?’

‘Yes!’ growled Rougham. ‘And whoever discovers a compound that emits clear, bright, steady light will be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. When Northwood had wind of our experiments, he asked to join us, but Holm and I refused. He was livid, so I suspect he decided to conduct tests of his own, enlisting the London brothers to help.’

‘And Vale?’ asked Michael. ‘Did he enlist Vale, too?’

Rougham pursed his lips. ‘Vale would not have joined forces with him willingly.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Michael. ‘That the other three coerced him?’

For a moment, it seemed Rougham would not reply, but then he said, ‘Vale had a lady friend, and liked to frolic with her on occasion. Northwood saw him once, and threatened to tell.’

‘Northwood was blackmailing him?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘That is your prerogative,’ said Rougham pompously. ‘However, Vale told me himself.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew sceptically, thinking that Vale had not been a man to confess to shortcomings, especially to someone like Rougham, who would be judgemental.

‘It happened after the Convocation of Regents where we voted on the Common Library. You see, I specifically told all my Fellows to oppose the grace, and was outraged when Vale disobeyed. I demanded an explanation, and that was the one he gave – that Northwood had forced him to support it. It is not such great leap of logic to assume that Northwood bullied him into other things, too.’

‘Blackmail is a serious allegation to make against a senior member of the Carmelite Order,’ said Michael warningly.

Rougham nodded. ‘Yes, but it is true, nonetheless.’

‘Was Vale sufficiently distressed about the situation to harm himself?’ asked Michael.

Rougham released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Vale? Do not be ridiculous! He considered himself far too indispensable to consider anything of that nature.’

It was not a pleasant remark to make about a colleague, but Bartholomew was inclined to concur. Vale had held a highly inflated opinion of himself.

‘What is the name of Vale’s lady?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you not advise him to give her up if the relationship was going to lead to him being forced into acting against his will?’

‘I did suggest he transfer his affections elsewhere,’ replied Rougham. ‘But he declared himself to be in love. And the lady’s name is Ruth Weasenham.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, astonished. ‘I would have thought her too respectable for extra-marital dalliances.’

‘So would I, but can you blame her? Weasenham is hardly a man to satisfy a woman’s dreams, and his last spouse wandered from the wedding bed, too, as I recall. I imagine the poor lasses do it to retain their sanity, because he cannot make for pleasing company.’

‘Ruth was distressed by the news of Vale’s death,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I saw her eyes fill with tears when we mentioned him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But she was upset by Adam’s death, too, and the London brothers’. She is just a gentle lady with a kind heart, and I am not sure I believe this tale.’

‘Perhaps we should start a rumour about it,’ said Rougham speculatively. ‘Weasenham is a gossip, and it would be poetic justice for him to be the subject of an embarrassing story.’

‘But that would hurt Ruth,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how she had rallied to his defence when Weasenham had accused him of being a warlock. ‘Please do not.’

Rougham sniffed. ‘Very well, although only as a personal favour to you – Weasenham does deserve to be taught a lesson. Of course, you are wasting your time investigating these deaths.’

‘We are?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because it is clear what happened: God did not like what Northwood and his helpmeets were doing, so He took measures to stop them. It was divine punishment on four men who were aiming to steal the secret of lamp fuel from its rightful discoverers – us.’

It was warm when Bartholomew and Michael left Gonville Hall and began to walk to the Carmelite Priory. Many people had snatched a few hours from work, and were using the time to smarten their houses for the Corpus Christi festivities the following week. The wealthier residents were having their homes painted, while the poorer ones contented themselves with a scrubbing brush and a bucket of water. Bartholomew had rarely seen the town looking so spruce. The work did not, however, extend to removing the piles of rubbish that festered on every street corner.

Edith was supervising the beautification of her husband’s business premises, which involved a wash of pale gold, and hanging baskets of flowering plants from the eaves. Stanmore’s apprentices were thoroughly enjoying themselves, horsing around on ladders and making a good deal of high-spirited noise. Edith fussed about beneath them like a mother hen, exhorting them to take care and not to lean out so far with their brushes.

‘They will not listen to me,’ she cried, agitated. ‘Can they not see that fooling around on steps is dangerous? What shall I do if one of them falls?’

‘Hire me to stick their smashed pates back together,’ came a smooth voice behind her. It was Surgeon Holm, elegant in a scarlet tunic and matching hose. Meryfeld was with him, short, grubby and unsavoury by comparison, although he was smiling as usual.

‘I thought you disliked cranial surgery,’ Meryfeld said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I, however, have several potions that can knit cracked skulls without resorting to knives and spillages of blood.’

‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Such as what?’

Meryfeld tapped the side of his nose. ‘That is a secret, and I am not in the habit of sharing my miraculous cures with rivals, as you know perfectly well.’

‘He is not a rival,’ said Edith, standing with her hands on her hips. She regarded Meryfeld with dislike. ‘He is a colleague. Tell him this cure, so he may use it to help others.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ said Meryfeld, the smile slipping. ‘He may purchase a pot of my remedy, but I am not giving the recipe to anyone.’

‘Perhaps he will be able to buy some when he wins five marks,’ said Holm silkily. ‘He and I have a little wager, you see. I believe that Isnard and the riverfolk are inveterate criminals, but he maintains they are angels. Who do you think is right, Mistress Stanmore?’

Edith regarded her brother incredulously. ‘You staked five marks on Isnard and his friends being law-abiding? Were you drunk? Or ill? You do not look well today.’

‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew shortly, aware of Michael chuckling next to him. ‘But people are always maligning the riverfolk, just because they are poor, and I am tired of it. They are no more corrupt than the next man, and a good deal more honest than many.’

‘You have been spending too much time with your book-bearer,’ drawled Holm. ‘Because these are the kind of sentiments Cynric likes to expound in the King’s Head, to like-minded malcontents who itch to overturn the proper order of things.’

‘Matt was simply defending his patients,’ said Michael. ‘His remarks have nothing to do with the seditious banter that is bandied about in that particular tavern.’

‘If you say so,’ smirked Holm. ‘And while we are on the subject, will you tell Cynric to desist his nasty prattle about peasants and uprisings? We should leave that sort of thing to the French, because I do not want my country turned upside-down by some silly revolution.’

‘I would not mind,’ said Meryfeld. ‘Disorder is lucrative – all those injuries to tend.’

‘Have you learned any more about the unfortunate demise of Vale, Brother?’ asked Holm. ‘It is a most peculiar case, and I do not envy you your investigation.’

‘Neither do I,’ agreed Meryfeld, before Michael could answer. ‘However, I doubt you will solve it. Riborowe has just informed me that those four scholars died by the hand of God, and we all know that He works in mysterious ways. I recommend you abandon the enquiry, lest you annoy Him. But I have patients waiting and remedies to concoct, so I must be on my way. Goodbye.’

‘I dislike them,’ said Edith, when the pair had gone. ‘Meryfeld is all smiles and cheery manners, but he is greedy and selfish. And Holm is greasy.’

‘Greasy?’ queried Michael, amused.

‘Oily,’ elaborated Edith. ‘Smug. Self-satisfied. Slippery. Untrustworthy. Full of–’

‘We have your meaning,’ interrupted Michael, laughing. ‘And I am inclined to concur.’

‘Not about Meryfeld,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He is–’

‘He is unwilling to share his cures with you, despite the fact that you always answer his questions,’ interrupted Edith crossly. ‘It is hardly fair. However, even though Holm is greasy, no one can deny that he is extraordinarily handsome. Perhaps more so than anyone I have ever seen.’

‘Holm is?’ asked Bartholomew, incredulously.

Edith laughed. ‘You will not understand, Matt. You are not a woman.’

They turned as footsteps approached from behind. It was Sheriff Tulyet, with Bonabes at his side. Tulyet’s hands were splashed with ink, and he was full of the taut restlessness he always exuded when administrative duties had kept him indoors for too long. The Exemplarius, meanwhile, was distinctly sheepish, and the front of his tunic was soaking wet. He was carrying a soggy bundle.

‘There was an incident,’ Bonabes said in response to Michael’s questioning glance. ‘Weasenham and I were stirring the rags in our paper-making vat when he lost his balance and fell in. It took some time to fish him out.’

‘Is he hurt?’ asked Bartholomew solicitously.

Bonabes grinned as he shook his head, although he struggled for a sober expression when Tulyet shot him a warning glare. ‘Only his pride. I could not rescue him alone, so Ruth summoned reinforcements. Sheriff Tulyet came, and so did Walkelate of King’s Hall, Rolee and Teversham of Bene’t College, Riborowe and Jorz of the Carmelites, Coslaye and Browne from Batayl, Gyseburne–’

‘In other words, half of Cambridge witnessed his predicament,’ interrupted Tulyet, regarding Bonabes balefully. ‘And there was a good deal of merriment before the poor man was extricated.’

Bartholomew smiled, while amusement gleamed in Michael’s green eyes and Edith laughed openly. Bonabes studied his feet, to prevent himself from joining in.

‘So why the disapproval, Dick?’ asked Michael. ‘It is not every day that a gossip receives his comeuppance. Surely, you do not feel sorry for him?’

‘No, but during the rescue, pails were overturned, and one contained lye. It splashed on the ceremonial cope that belongs to the Frevill family who live next door, which had just been washed ready for the Corpus Christi pageant next Thursday.’ Tulyet indicated Bonabes’s bundle.

‘It was not our fault that they left it on the wall to dry,’ objected Bonabes. ‘It is a–’

Tulyet silenced him with a look. ‘Needless to say, the Frevills are vexed, and harsh words were exchanged between scholars and townsmen. In the interests of peace, Weasenham has agreed to pay for its repair. Can your seamstresses manage it in time, Edith?’

‘Do you mean the Frevill who is helping to build the Common Library?’ said Bartholomew irrelevantly, watching Edith inspect the ravaged garment. ‘He is a carpenter.’

‘No, I mean the powerful and wealthy Frevill who heads the Guild of Corpus Christi – the carpenter is a lowly second cousin,’ replied Tulyet tersely. He turned to Edith. ‘Frevill will play an important role in the festivities, and the cope is an essential part of it. It is imperative that he is suitably adorned.’

‘I am sure we can do something,’ replied Edith soothingly.

‘Good.’ Tulyet treated Bonabes to another glower. ‘And no complaints about the price they charge, if you please. You should have been more careful.’

Michael sniggered as he and Bartholomew resumed their walk to the Carmelite Priory, gratified that Weasenham had not only suffered considerable embarrassment in front of a large number of people, but that it was likely to cost him a good deal of money, too.

‘He has inflicted all manner of heartache on others with his wagging tongue, and it is satisfying to see him in trouble with the Sheriff. Perhaps some of his victims will gossip about it, and he will know what it feels like to be on the wrong end of scurrilous chatter.’

‘I do not believe Ruth was Vale’s lover,’ said Bartholomew, thinking more of the stationer’s wife than the stationer. ‘I simply cannot see what would attract her to such a man.’

‘Can you not? Vale was young, reasonably handsome and he could be witty. Compared to Weasenham, he was a veritable Adonis.’

‘Dunning seems to like marrying his daughters to disagreeable men,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is going to foist Surgeon Holm on Julitta soon. You would think he would want better for them.’

‘Nonsense, Matt. You heard what Edith just said about Holm’s beauty, and other women have told me much the same. I imagine Julitta is delighted to have won such a fine specimen.’

‘She is not stupid, Brother. She will be able to see beyond his looks.’

‘Will she? There is no suggestion that she is averse to the match. Indeed, I would say that she is rather pleased by it. And what do you know of women, anyway?’

Bartholomew supposed the monk had a point, given that he had failed to keep the one lady who had meant more to him than any other. Although scholars were not permitted to fraternise with women, he was currently seeing a widow who lived near the Great Bridge. However, while he liked her greatly, and enjoyed all she had to offer, he could not imagine giving up his University teaching for her, as he would have done for Matilde. No woman would ever compare to Matilde, he thought unhappily, a familiar pang of loss spearing through him.

He and Michael had almost reached the Carmelite Priory when they saw Langelee and Ayera, walking slowly with their heads close together. Ayera was talking in an urgent whisper, and Langelee’s face was a mask of worry. As the Master rarely allowed much to dent his natural ebullience, the expression was cause for concern. His smile was strained when he saw his Fellows.

‘It is a pleasant time for a stroll,’ he said, all false bonhomie. ‘Neither too hot nor too cold.’

Bartholomew’s disquiet intensified; the bluff, soldierly Langelee was not a man to chat about the weather, either. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked in alarm.

‘Just the usual,’ replied Ayera, when Langelee hesitated. ‘College finances. As you know, my uncle died recently, after promising a substantial benefaction to Michaelhouse. Unfortunately, I have just learned that he had nothing to leave. Once his debts were paid, he was penniless.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You planned to spend your share on a horse …’

Ayera shrugged. ‘I shall manage without it. I am just sorry to disappoint my College.’

He gave a small, courtly bow and went on his way, his abrupt departure leaving Bartholomew with the impression that he was more disturbed by the news than he wanted them to know.

‘It is a damned shame,’ said Langelee, watching him go. ‘That money would have kept us afloat for more than a year, and the horse would have been a welcome addition to our stables. We could have made a tidy profit from putting him to stud, too.’

‘Ayera worked on his uncle for weeks to include us in his will,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleague’s jubilation when the old man had capitulated. He glanced at Langelee. ‘And you travelled to Huntingdon with him last month, to witness the new document.’

‘And to see my youngest daughter,’ said Langelee, fondness suffusing his blunt features.

It was not the first time the Master had mentioned offspring, and Bartholomew was keen to learn more about them, but Michael overrode the question he started to ask.

‘A wasted journey,’ the monk said in disgust. ‘One that cost us money, too.’

Langelee sighed ruefully. ‘Well, at least I enjoyed myself. Ayera is excellent company, and he impressed me with his martial skills. He was a soldier once, you know.’

‘We had gathered that from the tales you and he exchange of an evening,’ said Michael dryly. He regarded the Master pointedly. ‘Although he at least has the decency to regret the violence he has inflicted on others.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Langelee with a rueful sigh. ‘It is a pity, because he is otherwise a fine man. And he is a considerable improvement on Bartholomew, who manages to make the great victory at Poitiers sound dull.’

Bartholomew rarely discussed the battle, and wondered what he could have said to give the Master that impression. There were many words he might have used to describe it, but ‘dull’ certainly would not have been one of them. ‘Do I?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Langelee folded his hands and gave a disconcertingly accurate impression of the physician’s voice. ‘“The Prince of Wales sounded the charge, we ran forward and the French surrendered.” An extremely vibrant account, to be sure.’

Bartholomew shrugged, suspecting Langelee would not understand if he confided that the battle was a blur in his mind – of wildly flailing weapons, screams and blood. He vividly recalled the injuries he had tended afterwards, but no one was very interested in those.

‘Have you discovered what happened to those four scholars in Newe Inn yet?’ the Master asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘The whole town is abuzz with rumours.’

‘No,’ replied Michael. ‘But my beadles have been busy with questions today.’

‘Good,’ said Langelee. ‘However, I strongly advise you to hurry, because our University seethes with bile and bitterness at the moment, and the sooner you can present us with a culprit, the sooner wounds and rifts will begin to heal.’

Michael did not need to be told.

At the Carmelite Friary, a lay-brother conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the pleasant cottage that served as the Prior’s House, where Etone sat at a large table surrounded by documents and a sizeable ledger.

‘We are here to ask about Northwood,’ explained the monk. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

‘Of course,’ replied Etone. ‘But this interview should take place in the scriptorium, where he worked. His colleagues knew him better than I did.’

The scriptorium was a grand name for the room above the refectory, which boasted large windows to admit the light. There were about a dozen desks, and a scribe stood at each; among them were Riborowe and Jorz. Another four were novices, labouring over some basic writing exercises.

‘Riborowe has set them a series of theological tracts to copy,’ explained Etone, when Michael paused to look. ‘They will eventually be sold to Weasenham as exemplars. It is a good idea – it allows them to practise before we set them loose on vellum and expensive coloured inks.’

‘How many did Northwood sell last week?’ asked Michael innocently.

‘One,’ replied Etone. ‘There were two, but he said the other was of insufficient quality.’

‘Weasenham!’ exclaimed Jorz, overhearing and exchanging an angry glance with Riborowe. ‘That man delights in causing mischief. We should have let him drown in his paper vat today!’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Etone. ‘Those are unworthy sentiments for a friar.’

‘Well, he is going around telling everyone that Northwood did sell him the second exemplar, but that he kept the money for himself,’ said Jorz sulkily.

‘Then he deserves your compassion, not your ire, because the tale is clearly a lie,’ said Etone mildly. ‘He must be a deeply unhappy man to invent such tales about the dead.’

Jorz did not look convinced, and neither was Bartholomew. Weasenham had always seemed perfectly content to him, and had good reason to be, with his flourishing business, succession of pretty wives, and robust health.

‘What else do you do here?’ he asked. ‘Besides providing exemplars for the stationer?’

‘We produce bibles mostly, along with prayer books and psalters.’ Etone smiled, proud of his scriveners’ talents. ‘Obviously, we do not expect our illustrators to be able to draw everything, so we encourage them to specialise in particular letters or specific animals. For example, Willelmus here excels at Js and As.’

Willelmus was a man of middle years, small and hunched, with the milky eyes of incipient blindness. Poor vision was an occupational hazard among illustrators, and Bartholomew wondered what he would do when he could no longer see well enough to work. Etone read his thoughts.

‘I shall make him parish priest at Girton soon,’ he whispered. ‘He objects, of course, as he loves being here. But he will need what remains of his eyesight to settle into his new life.’

‘I draw chickens, too,’ Willelmus was saying shyly, smiling up at Michael.

‘Chickens?’ asked the monk, amused. ‘Is there much call for fowl in sacred manuscripts, then?’

Willelmus nodded fervently. ‘You would be surprised at how often they can be inserted, Brother. They are lovable beasts, and it amuses me to immortalise them.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, regarding him as though he were short of a few wits.

‘Meanwhile, Jorz here does climbing foliage,’ boasted Etone. ‘And devils.’

Jorz smiled rather diabolically. ‘It is good to remind people that not everything is pretty flowers and happy hens. The occasional demon lurking in the greenery is a warning that Satan is never far away. People should remember this, even when reading their scriptures.’

‘There are rather more imps here than angels,’ remarked Michael, squinting over Jorz’s work. Willelmus was not the only one whose eyesight was not all it had been. ‘Is that appropriate?’

‘Prior Etone says I must not draw cherubs and devils with the same hand,’ explained Jorz. ‘So I paint fiends with my left, which is comfortable, but I am clumsy with my right, so angels take longer and are not so fine when I have finished. That is why there are more demons.’

Etone shrugged when Michael regarded him questioningly. ‘I was afraid there might be an urge to make them overly similar, otherwise. And then where would we be, theologically speaking?’

‘I specialise in depicting weapons,’ declared Riborowe, cutting into the bemused silence that followed. ‘And my bows, bombards, swords and ribauldequins have dispatched many a chicken and sprite. I get the manuscripts last, you see, to add the finishing touches.’

Michael’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. ‘You amaze me! I would have thought there was even less demand for weapons in sacred texts than for poultry and denizens of Hell.’

‘The Bible is a very violent book,’ said Riborowe approvingly. ‘It is full of wars, battles, fights and murders, and people are always smiting enemies. So is God. Look at the ribauldequin I have drawn here. It is a perfect copy of the ones used at Poitiers.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

‘Because I was there,’ declared Riborowe proudly. ‘I was a chaplain with the English army.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘How many more of our scholars are going to confess to taking part in that vicious occasion? We have three so far, with you, Holm and Matt.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Riborowe, shooting Bartholomew an unpleasant glance before going to fetch more ink from a little antechamber at the far end of the room. He called back over his shoulder, as he went, ‘However, I did not wield a weapon and nor did I side with the French, like Holm.’

‘You are limping,’ observed Bartholomew. He might not have remarked on it, but Dame Pelagia’s words about men with leg wounds clamoured at him, and Riborowe’s look had irritated him.

‘I tripped running away from a batch of ink that exploded,’ said the friar, rather coolly. He held up red-stained hands. ‘See the mess it made?’

‘When did–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Look at this manuscript,’ interrupted Jorz, brandishing a sheaf of pages that were a blaze of colour. ‘It is a gift for Sir Eustace Dunning – a Book of Hours.’

‘If we give it to him,’ said Etone grimly. ‘I have not forgiven him for depriving us of Newe Inn yet. Or for facilitating the establishment of a Common Library.’

‘Speaking of Newe Inn, do any of you know what Northwood was doing in its grounds?’ asked Michael. ‘Or why he should have been there with Vale and the London brothers?’

‘I have no idea at all,’ replied Riborowe. ‘We have a lovely garden here, in the friary.’

‘When did you last see him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Tuesday evening,’ supplied Riborowe. ‘He said he was going to find somewhere quiet to read. The next day, we noticed that his bed had not been slept in.’

‘Was that unusual?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Etone who answered. ‘No. He was an avid reader, even at night when he was obliged to use a lamp. He told me he was looking forward to your success with good fuel, Matthew, because Willelmus’s plight had shown him what happens to those who strain their eyes.’

‘I understand he liked alchemy,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he might have decided to investigate that particular matter himself, in competition with the medici?’

‘He might have done,’ said Etone, silencing Jorz’s immediate denial with a raised hand. ‘But I think he would have told them. He had his failings, but deceit was not one of them.’

‘What failings?’ pounced Michael.

‘Voting in favour of the Common Library,’ said Riborowe immediately. ‘He was the only White Friar to flout our Prior’s instructions. None of the rest of us want such a vile place in our midst.’

‘No,’ agreed Etone. We considered the scheme inadvisable before Dunning provided Newe Inn for the purpose, but we are even more opposed to it now.’

‘That was Northwood’s only fault?’ probed Michael.

Etone sighed. ‘No. If you must know, he was vain about his intellect and impatient with those he deemed inferior.’

‘I never found that,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the judgement uncharitable.

‘That is because he admired you, and went to some trouble to cultivate your friendship,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘He thought your mind was worthy of his notice. However, he was considerably less amiable with those who had not won his approbation.’

‘And he was a bully,’ Willelmus muttered, while the novices nodded fervently. ‘He worked the boys very hard, then dismissed their efforts as inadequate.’

‘He often made us stay late,’ added one. ‘And we were afraid that we would grow as blind as Willelmus, because he kept us here long after sunset, when we could barely see.’

‘For the money, it would seem,’ said Michael, ‘which he kept for himself.’

Etone pursed his lips. ‘He was not a thief, Brother. And if you do not believe me, then inspect his cell. You will find no ill-gotten gains there.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael agreeably. ‘Lead on.’

Etone was piqued that Michael was unwilling to take his word about Northwood’s probity, but ordered Riborowe to take the monk and his Corpse Examiner to the dormitory anyway. Sniffing, to indicate his disapproval, the thin priest led the way out of the scriptorium, across the yard, and up a flight of stairs. The dormitory was a large, airy room with flies buzzing around the rafters, and an enormous hearth at each end, to keep the friars warm during inclement weather.

The cubicle that had been occupied by Northwood was about halfway down. There was nothing in it except a bed, a box containing some writings on alchemy, and a spare habit.

‘You see?’ said Riborowe triumphantly. ‘These tales about his greed are lies.’

‘Unless someone guessed that we might inspect his possessions, and made sure all was in order,’ said Michael sombrely. Bartholomew had been thinking the same thing.

‘That is a dreadful charge to lay at our door!’ declared Riborowe indignantly. ‘How dare you!’

Michael was silent for a moment. ‘I have a legal and an ethical obligation to find out what happened to Northwood, and if that means poking into matters that are awkward, distressing or embarrassing, then that is what I must do. I take no pleasure from it, and nor will I gossip about what I learn, but it must be done if the truth is to come out.’

Riborowe softened when he sensed the monk’s sincerity. ‘Very well. Northwood was vain about his intellect, and he was strict with the novices. However, he did not sell exemplars to profit himself – he was not that kind of man. He was your friend, Bartholomew: you know I am right.’

‘It is true, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Northwood was not interested in material wealth, only in expanding his mind and learning more about alchemy.’

‘His fondness for flinging potions together was not a virtue,’ said Riborowe stiffly. ‘It led him into dubious company – such as yours, Bartholomew, and that of the Londons and Vale. I cannot imagine why he sought them out. The brothers were stupid, while Vale was plain nasty. Jorz and I are decent alchemists – look at our experiments with ink – so why could he not have been satisfied with us?’

‘Where did he meet them?’ demanded Michael. ‘And when?’

‘In Weasenham’s shop, in St Mary the Great, talking in Cholles Lane.’ Riborowe shrugged. ‘They were always chatting. The last time I saw all four together was perhaps five days ago. They were laughing, although Northwood declined to share the joke when I asked what was so amusing.’

‘In other words, their society was friendly?’ asked Michael. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew: Vale would not have been guffawing with Northwood if the Carmelite had been blackmailing him.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Riborowe, puzzled. ‘Why would it not be?’

‘There is some suggestion that Northwood discovered Vale had a lover,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘He never mentioned it to me,’ said Riborowe, startled. ‘He was not a gossip.’

Michael indicated that he had finished his search, and Riborowe led them back down the stairs and across the yard to the gate.

‘I am not sure what to think, Matt,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘To you, Northwood was a kindly philosopher; to his novices and Willelmus, he was a tyrant; to Weasenham, he was dishonest; to Etone and his fellow friars, he was an eccentric academic; to Rougham, he was a competitor in the race to produce fuel; and to Vale, he was a blackmailer. Which is the real man?’

Bartholomew had no reply, uncomfortable with what they had learned about a person he thought he had known. To avoid addressing the issue, he changed the direction of the discussion.

‘Perhaps Vale concocted this tale about a lover, so that Rougham would not berate him over voting for the Common Library. Rougham keeps a lady himself, so would certainly be sympathetic to the notion of being blackmailed over one.’

‘Yes, but why did Vale vote against his College’s wishes in the first place?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Gonville’s medical books are all very traditional. Perhaps he hoped there would be a wider choice in a Common Library.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Yet Northwood was determined that our University should have a central repository for books. He was passionate about it, in fact. And it would not be the first time a scholar did something underhand to get his own way, believing himself to be in the right.’

Again, Bartholomew had no answer.

Once away from the Carmelite Priory, Michael aimed for Newe Inn, to re-examine the place where the four scholars had died. Bartholomew trailed after him, feeling they were wasting their time.

‘Do you have any theories about what happened yet?’ he asked, watching the monk poke the edge of the pond with a stick. ‘Or suspects?’

‘Not really. However, on reflection, I think you are right about Vale: he did lie about having a lover to avoid Rougham’s censure for taking for the wrong side at the Convocation. Of course, the only way to be sure is to ask Ruth.’

‘I doubt she will tell you.’ Bartholomew began to pick some late-flowering lily of the valley. It was useful in remedies for dropsy, and there was so much growing by the pond that he did not think anyone would mind him harvesting a bit. It was past its full glory, but would still do what he wanted. ‘She has nothing to gain by confessing to adultery.’

Michael grimaced. ‘True, but we shall have to make the attempt, anyway. So what have you deduced? And please do not tell me that you believe God is responsible. Or the Devil.’

‘I am fairly sure Northwood, Vale and the Londons were poisoned.’ Bartholomew spread his hands, both full of flowers. ‘I can think of no other reason why they should have died at the same time – and we know they did die at the same time, because Clippesby saw them all alive together on Tuesday night. He told me himself.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Michael. ‘Then who did it? And why?’

‘Not my medical colleagues,’ said Bartholomew immediately, stuffing the flowers into his bag. ‘Perhaps Northwood did recruit friends to help him experiment with lamp fuel after Rougham rejected his offer of help, but none of us would have felt strongly enough about it to kill them.’

Michael gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Not you, perhaps, but the others would! Moreover, if anyone knows how to poison people without leaving evidence, it is a medicus. And just look at the choices: Meryfeld is greedy and ruthless; Rougham is arrogant and vengeful; Gyseburne is enigmatic and inscrutable; and Edith says Holm is greasy.’

‘But none of them are killers,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘However, the notion that all four victims voted for the Common Library disturbs me. Do you think that is why they were killed?’

‘I am inclined to say no, because several hundred scholars from the hostels also supported the scheme, and none of them are dead. Of course, none came from foundations that had ordered them to vote the other way.’

‘Do you think I am in danger, then?’

‘It is possible, so you had better take Cynric with you when you go out at night from now on. He can protect you from men who demand formulae for wildfire, too.’ Michael stopped poking at the pond. ‘Do you think Sawtre was murdered as well – that his “accident” was anything but?’

‘King’s Hall seems happy to blame an unstable piece of furniture, and there is nothing to suggest they are wrong. Of course, there is nothing to say they are right, either.’

Michael tapped his leg with the stick, thinking. ‘What do you think of Browne as a culprit? I know he has friends at King’s Hall, so getting into the place would be easy for him. He found the four bodies, too. Experience tells me to look closely at the fellow who raises the alarm.’

‘Well, he certainly disapproves of the Common Library. Do you think Coslaye helped him?’

‘Possibly. I shall have to interrogate them soon, although it will not be easy when there are no facts to encourage them to confess.’

Bartholomew followed him along the path, back towards the library building. ‘You are due to make your report to Dunning soon. What will you tell him?’

Michael shrugged. ‘The truth: that the four men who died here were almost certainly killed unlawfully, but that we have no idea by whom or why. I hope he does not decide that the information is not worth a meal, because I am hungry.’

They passed the library as they aimed for the gate, which rang with the sounds of industry as usual. Someone was whistling as he worked, a tune that marked time with the rap of a hammer, and apprentices were sweeping sawdust into bags, ready to be sold to farmers.

‘It has just started, Doctor,’ called one lad. He was Alfred de Blaston, a youth whose family had been Bartholomew’s patients for years. ‘If you hurry, you will not have missed much.’

‘What has started?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘The tour of the library for future benefactors,’ explained Alfred impatiently. ‘I am sure you will be a donor, because you are very rich.’

‘I am?’ Bartholomew was astonished to hear so.

Alfred nodded. ‘Of course, or you would not have been able to provide my little brother with milksops and free medicine all winter.’

Michael grinned. ‘Now I shall know whom to approach when I need to borrow some money. But I would not mind participating in this tour, and we have enough time before dinner.’

They arrived to find Walkelate standing on the stairs, addressing a group of men and women. There were perhaps thirty of them, and they included Chancellor Tynkell, burgesses from the Guild of Corpus Christi and a number of senior scholars. Tynkell was alarmed when he saw Michael, and sidled through the assembly towards him. The Chancellor rarely looked healthy, mostly because of his unfortunate aversion to hygiene, but he seemed especially pallid that day.

‘Please do not make any remarks that will put them off, Brother,’ he begged. ‘It will not be much of a library without books, and that is the purpose of this gathering – to secure donations.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘And why was I not told about it?’

‘Because I was afraid you would cause trouble,’ explained Tynkell bluntly. ‘A few well-chosen words from you will see these would-be benefactors turn tail and run.’

‘Do you really consider me so petty?’ Michael was indignant.

The Chancellor did not deign to answer.

‘And now, if you will follow me upstairs, I shall show you the library proper,’ announced Walkelate, beaming at the throng and clearly delighted to be showing off his work.

The visitors began to shuffle up the steps, cooing at the carved handrail and the decorative corbels. The hammering and sawing that had been echoing around the garden promptly stopped. Bartholomew, Tynkell and Michael joined the end of the party.

‘It is a remarkable achievement,’ Bartholomew said, looking around appreciatively and noting in particular the lifelike features of Aristotle. ‘The craftsmen have worked wonders.’

‘It is beautiful,’ conceded Michael grudgingly. ‘The hostel men will enjoy coming here, although such splendour is wasted on them. Is that Dunning over there, talking to Weasenham?’

The Chancellor nodded. ‘He is often here, checking on progress, while Weasenham has promised us several very expensive books and a large number of exemplars. They are both vital to the success of this scheme, so please be nice to them, Brother.’

‘I shall be my usual charming self,’ promised Michael, surging forward.

‘That is what I was afraid of,’ said Tynkell worriedly to Bartholomew. ‘So I had better ingratiate myself with the Frevill clan. Several are wealthy, and their kinsman works here, so perhaps they will provide us with books, should Michael’s “charming self” do any damage.’

Bartholomew watched him approach several tall, well-built gentlemen, one of whom was the carpenter he had met before. Frevill saw Bartholomew looking at him, and came to talk.

‘We cannot really afford to stop work and deal with visitors,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Not if we are to finish in the allotted time. But Walkelate says securing well-wishers is important, so …’

‘You look tired,’ said Bartholomew, seeing lines of weariness etched deep into the man’s face.

‘So do you,’ countered Frevill, smiling. ‘But I am well, although I worry about Kente. He suffers from dizzy spells, and I am sure it is the long hours he keeps. Will you speak to him?’

As he followed Frevill into the adjoining room, Bartholomew heard Michael ask Weasenham – loudly – whether he had recovered from his mishap in the paper vat. The question brought a gale of laughter from those who heard it, and Tynkell winced at Weasenham’s furious glare.

The room containing the libri concatenati stank of the oil that had been used to stain the wood. It was not unpleasant, but it was strong, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Kente was light-headed. The craftsman was sitting atop the cista, treating an exquisitely carved lectern to a liberal smothering of brown grease.

‘This will make it shine like burnished gold,’ Kente said, glancing up when Frevill and Bartholomew approached. He was pale, but there was genuine pleasure in his face. ‘I am looking forward to the opening next week.’

‘Your paste reeks,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Frevill says you have not been feeling well.’

‘Nothing that a few days’ rest will not cure,’ said Kente, waving his concerns away. ‘And I shall have those next week, once this place is finished. We are very close now.’

‘Try to go outside occasionally,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘For fresh air.’

‘I do not need fresh air,’ stated Kente scornfully. ‘I have been inhaling this lovely oil all my life, and I like its scent.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after, we shall close this room to keep it pristine while we add the finishing touches to the libri distribuendi next door. That chamber is slightly behind schedule, but nothing we cannot rectify with a bit of hard work.’

There was little that Bartholomew could do if Kente declined to listen to him. He shrugged to Frevill, and began to wander, smiling when he saw Michael’s chubby features in a carving depicting the feeding of the five thousand. He half listened to the discussions of the benefactors around him, pleased when he heard several begin to compete with each other’s generosity.

‘My entire collection of breviaries,’ declared Stanmore to the head of the Frevill clan.

‘The complete works of Bradwardine,’ countered Frevill. ‘Religious and philosophical.’

‘And I shall donate my bestiary,’ said a quietly spoken scholar from Bene’t College named Rolee.

‘You will?’ blurted Bartholomew in astonishment. ‘Does your College not have an opinion about that? Bene’t is one of this place’s most fervent opponents.’

Rolee nodded. ‘I know, and I voted against it myself, as I was ordered. But now I see it, I wish I had given it my support. It is a grand venture, and one that is a credit to our studium generale. When my colleagues see it for themselves, they will think the same.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘And that they are won around soon. Michael said it caused a fight between your College and Essex Hostel last night.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rolee ruefully. ‘But even if they do remain antagonistic, they will not mourn the loss of my bestiary. They consider it a waste of space, and say our shelves would be better graced with tomes on theology or law.’

Bartholomew browsed a little longer, and was about to leave when he spotted his sister talking to Ruth and Julitta. As he went to pay his respects, a shaft of sunlight pierced the room and bathed Julitta in its golden rays. It turned her eyes to sapphire and her skin to the purest alabaster. When she turned to smile a greeting at him, he found himself gazing at the face of an angel.

‘Ruth asked whether you had heard what happened to her husband, Matt,’ said Edith loudly, pinching his arm to gain his attention. He blushed when he realised they had been speaking to him for several moments, but he had not heard a word of it.

‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I mean yes.’

Julitta laughed. ‘Your brother seems discomfited by the presence of so many ladies. University men are not used to us, so perhaps we had better leave him in peace.’

They had gone before Bartholomew could say he was perfectly happy to be discomfited by her, then was glad she had not given him the chance when he saw Holm nearby. The surgeon was regarding him coolly, and Bartholomew felt his face grow red a second time.

‘My sister likes to tease,’ said Ruth. ‘Take no notice of her. Unless you want to, of course.’

To cover his confusion at the enigmatic remark, Bartholomew blurted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Did you know Vale the physician?’

‘You know I did,’ said Ruth, bemused. ‘I told you when you came to our shop earlier today that I was his patient.’

‘Someone mentioned … there is a rumour …’ Bartholomew trailed off, heartily wishing he had never started the conversation. It was hardly his responsibility to ask embarrassing questions for Michael’s investigation.

‘There was a nasty report, some weeks ago, that he was my lover,’ said Ruth frostily. ‘Is that the subject you have chosen to discuss with me? I assure you, it is quite untrue. There was never any shred of impropriety between Vale and me. I credit myself with more taste.’

‘The tale was malicious, then?’ Bartholomew wondered who would do such a thing. Was it someone who had fallen prey to Weasenham’s tattle, and who had decided to strike back?

Ruth grimaced, then said in a less hostile tone, ‘Or wishful thinking.’

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You think Vale might have …’

‘Imagined it, yes,’ finished Ruth. ‘He liked to think of himself as an Adonis, and once told Bonabes that he could seduce any woman he pleased. However, he certainly did not try to seduce me. He was never anything but polite and proper.’

Bartholomew began to apologise for raising the matter, loath for her to think badly of him. As he did so, he became aware that he was doing it because he did not want her to tell Julitta about his boorish behaviour, and that it was her younger sister’s good opinion that he really wanted to keep. He started to stumble over his words, disconcerted by what he was learning about himself, and was relieved when Walkelate interrupted by bustling up to them.

‘I have just told Brother Michael – again – that I saw and heard nothing unusual on the night that those four men died,’ the architect blurted out, troubled. ‘But he seems reluctant to believe me.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because he says the pond is a mere stone’s throw from here, and we must have noticed something. But we did not! We were oiling the shelves, which was tedious work, so Holm hired a couple of singers to entertain us while we laboured.’

‘Holm did? Why?’

‘It was an act of kindness – we are friends,’ replied Walkelate. ‘He is our nearest neighbour, too, and likes to stay on our good side. My artisans and I all joined in the songs – loudly and cheerfully – so we heard nothing amiss.’

‘But you must have gone into the garden at some point,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘I imagine you store some of your materials there.’

‘We used to, but there is no need now that all the shelves, floors and panels are in place.’

Bartholomew was frustrated on Michael’s behalf. ‘But four people died here! Surely, you noticed something unusual – the gate ajar, an odd noise, torches in the undergrowth? Holm certainly did, from next door.’

‘I wish we had,’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘But we rarely look out of the windows when we are working – our attention is on our hands. And it would not have helped the victims if we had – you cannot see the pond from here. You cannot see the gate, either, so an elephant could have marched into the garden, and we would have known nothing about it.’

‘It is true,’ said Ruth, who had been listening to the exchange. ‘The craftsmen are always intent on their work, because they aim to have the bonus my father promised for finishing by next week.’

‘What about the apprentices?’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Boys will not be so absorbed.’

‘No,’ agreed Walkelate. ‘But they have school lessons in the evenings, so they are never here. But ask them anyway. Perhaps they noticed something unusual during the day.’

Bartholomew did, but his efforts went unrewarded. They worked as hard as their masters, and had no time for fighting their way through the weeds to the fish pond. And as it had a reputation for housing evil sprites, none of them had been inclined to do so anyway.

‘I went up there once,’ confided Alfred. ‘When we first started working here, as a dare. I did not see any faeries, but I could feel them watching me, flexing their claws ready to leap out and drag me down into their evil pond. I ran away as fast as I could.’

‘You had better get a charm from Cynric if you intend to spend much more time there, Doctor,’ advised another boy, his young face solemn. ‘He will make sure you are properly protected.’

Bartholomew was sure he would.