Murder by the Book

Chapter 5

‘Lord! I am hungry,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked to the handsome house owned by Dunning a short while later. ‘I could eat a horse, although I hope they do not give me one.’

‘We have made scant progress today,’ said Bartholomew, more concerned with their investigation than Michael’s culinary preferences. ‘Over Northwood and the others.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael, reluctantly dragging his mind away from food and back to the murders. ‘And there is the fact that my grandmother is in Cambridge.’

Bartholomew nodded slowly. ‘True. Do you have any idea what brought her here?’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Well, our university boasts a lot of clever minds, ones that have taken to invention enthusiastically since that deputation from Oxford virtually challenged us to compete with them. Perhaps the King sent her here to keep an eye on us.’

‘I sincerely doubt we warrant that sort of attention, Brother!’

‘Do not be so sure. Some of these discoveries will be worth a fortune, and His Majesty is interested in money. Moreover, there is the attack on you to consider.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It occurred because someone believes you know how to make wildfire – another invention.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I do not think an agent of Dame Pelagia’s standing would have been dragged from retirement to spy on a few academics who like to experiment, not even ones who have stumbled across a formula for wildfire. She is here for another reason, although it is entirely possible that we may never learn what it is. She is not exactly forthcoming.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael wryly. ‘However, I think you are wrong. She was in the London brothers’ house when we found her, which makes me suspect that they were dabbling in something rather more sly than making paper, probably in company with Northwood and Vale.’

‘Competing with us over lamp fuel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although we have nothing to prove it. Rougham made the accusation, but he disliked Northwood.’

‘Prior Etone said it was possible, too, and I shall certainly bear it in mind as I make my enquiries. Ergo, I am loath to cross your medical colleagues off my list of suspects for the deaths of those four men. As I said earlier, physicians know how to poison people without leaving evidence, so one of them might well have dispatched the competition.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘They would not–’

‘Rougham, Gyseburne, Meryfeld and Holm,’ mused Michael, overriding him. ‘None are what I could call pleasant characters. But here we are at Dunning’s house, so we had better discuss this later. I would not like anyone else to know the route our suspicions have taken.’

He had knocked on Dunning’s door before Bartholomew could inform him that his suspicions had taken him nowhere near the medici. It was opened by Julitta. She was wearing a blue kirtle that matched her eyes, and a gold net, called a fret, covered her glossy hair. When she smiled a welcome, Bartholomew found himself at a loss for words. He was unsettled by the emotions that surged inside him, having experienced nothing like them since he had lost Matilde. Uneasily, he acknowledged that he could very easily become smitten with Julitta.

‘I hear you are betrothed, mistress,’ Michael was saying conversationally as he followed her inside, bringing Bartholomew back to Earth with a considerable bump. ‘To Holm the surgeon.’

Julitta nodded. ‘Yes. We shall be wed within the month.’

‘Is that what you want?’ blurted Bartholomew, recalling Clippesby’s contention that the union would not be a happy one, along with Holm’s open admission that he was only interested in her father’s money. Julitta regarded him in surprise, and so did Michael.

‘Of course,’ she replied, bemused. ‘Do you think I do not know my own mind?’

‘No … well, yes,’ said Bartholomew, flustered. ‘But Holm … A surgeon is …’

‘He is talented, charming, handsome and he loves me,’ said Julitta quietly. ‘And the match pleases my father. I am more than content with the arrangement.’

Bartholomew was tempted to inform her of what Holm had said, but he had the distinct feeling that she would not believe him, and it was not in his nature to tell tales anyway. He followed her along a narrow corridor to a room overlooking a pleasant garden. The window shutters had been thrown open, and the air that wafted inside was rich with the scent of flowers and herbs.

Michael need not have worried about going hungry, because the food was good and plentiful. There were roasted chickens, salted pork, wheaten bread, vegetables braised in butter, pea pottage and a raisin tart. Bartholomew’s stomach had not recovered from its bout with sickness the previous night, so he ate and drank sparingly. Michael, by contrast, ate and drank everything that was set near him as he summarised Bartholomew’s findings about the four dead scholars, and so did Dunning, who became garrulous as the evening wore on.

‘I am a member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, so it is only right that the Common Library I enabled should open on our Feast Day,’ he declared. ‘It is a fitting tribute to my generosity.’

‘Really, Father,’ murmured Julitta. ‘A little humility would–’

‘And I have been generous,’ Dunning brayed on. ‘Everyone else donates scrolls, altar cloths or relics, but my gift will go down in the annals of history as unique. I shall make sure you are remembered in perpetuity, too, Julitta, given that you were the one who encouraged me to do it.’

Bartholomew smiled at her, surprised and impressed that she should have done something so munificent. Julitta merely stared at the table, apparently mortified by her father’s bragging conceit.

‘Tell us about the arrangements for the Corpus Christi pageant,’ suggested Michael, reaching for the wine jug and tactfully changing the subject. ‘Will it be as spectacular as last year?’

Dunning beamed delightedly. ‘I think it will, because it will culminate in the opening of my library. The procession will be led by Frevill, who will wear a fancy cloak. The rest of the Guild will follow, along with the town’s priests, various University dignitaries – including that peculiar Chancellor Tynkell – and the burgesses.’

‘Why do you say Tynkell is peculiar?’ asked Michael curiously.

Dunning lowered his voice. ‘Well, there was a rumour not long ago that he was pregnant.’

‘That was a silly story put about by one of my students, as a joke,’ explained Bartholomew. It had actually been started by Deynman, who had believed it.

‘Yet there is something odd about the fellow,’ said Dunning. ‘Do you know what it is, Doctor?’

‘He does, but he refuses to tell,’ said Michael. ‘It is very annoying, because I work closely with Tynkell, and would dearly like to know what makes him … different.’

‘It is a pity that those four scholars died in Newe Inn’s garden,’ said Dunning, leaping to another subject with the convoluted logic of the drunk. ‘It was remiss of them, so close to the opening.’

‘It is an odd case,’ mused Michael, while Bartholomew regarded Dunning in distaste, feeling the remark was extraordinarily insensitive. ‘As I said during my summary just now, Matt can find no apparent cause of death.’

‘They were not men I would have imagined enjoying each other’s company,’ confided Dunning. ‘I liked Northwood and the London brothers, who praised me effusively for founding a Common Library, but I did not take to Vale. He was arrogant.’

‘Confident might be a kinder word,’ said Julitta. ‘He–’

‘I dislike medical men, on the whole,’ declared Dunning. He winced and bent down to rub his ankle – Julitta had kicked him under the table – then regarded Bartholomew sheepishly. ‘Present company excepted, of course.’

‘Yet you will allow your daughter to marry one,’ observed Michael.

‘Holm is a surgeon, which makes it all right,’ explained Dunning. ‘You can see what surgeons are doing, even if it is all rather bloody, whereas physicians only inspect urine or pretend to work out what is wrong by devising horoscopes. I know physicians are generally regarded as superior, but I prefer surgeons, because they cut hair, which is actually useful.’

‘Will Holm be giving you a trim for Corpus Christi?’ said Michael, struggling not to smile.

‘Me and the entire Guild,’ boasted Dunning. ‘We shall all look very well groomed.’

When servants came to clear the table, Dunning invited his guests to an elegant solar on the upper floor, to inspect his books. They could not help but be impressed, because his collection included theological and philosophical works, as well as tomes on law, astronomy and music.

‘Have you read all these?’ Bartholomew asked, running an appreciative finger along the bindings.

Dunning regarded him askance. ‘Why would I? They contain nothing I want to know.’

‘Then why do you have them?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback in his turn.

‘They look nice on the shelves,’ explained Dunning. ‘And Julitta likes them. I wish now that I had let her learn to read, because her fascination with literature means that we have to pay students to do it for her. Still, I shall save money once she is wed, because Holm will read to her.’

Julitta smiled in happy anticipation of romantic evenings to come, and Bartholomew felt a surge of dismay, sure Holm would do nothing of the kind. As if on cue, there was a clatter on the stairs, and a maid announced that the surgeon would be joining them for a cup of wine. Bartholomew watched Julitta’s face light up when Holm swaggered into the room. The newcomer made a courtly bow to her and Dunning, then saw they had company.

‘Bartholomew,’ he said, not altogether pleasantly. ‘And Michael. What brings you here?’

‘They came to dine,’ explained Dunning, nodding to Julitta to fetch more claret from the kitchen. ‘We have been discussing the celebrations for Corpus Christi. And books.’

‘Dunning arranged for me to be elected to his Guild,’ said Holm with careless pride. ‘So I shall be part of the pageant, too. I think I shall buy myself a new gown, perhaps with the five marks I am about to win.’

‘I hope you have not been gambling,’ admonished Dunning. ‘I do not approve of it.’

‘A simple wager that I cannot lose,’ explained Holm smoothly. ‘It was hardly sporting of me to accept it, to tell you the truth, but I could not help myself. Who am I to overlook free money?’

Dunning was unconvinced. ‘In my experience, there is no such thing as free money, but you know best, I suppose. You come very late tonight. Have you been with a patient?’

‘Yes – I have just saved a child’s life. He was screaming with the pain of an earache, so I gave him a good dose of mandrake and poppy juice. Now he is sleeping like a … well, like a baby.’

Bartholomew was horrified: those were very powerful substances for an infant. ‘Have you tried dropping a little oil of camomile or mullein into the infected ear?’ he asked, struggling to be tactful. ‘It usually serves to reduce–’

‘I cannot be bothered with feeble remedies,’ said Holm dismissively. ‘I usually treat earache by inserting a probe into the patient’s ear, and waggling it about. It loosens any wax, you see.’

‘Christ!’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Do any of your patients go deaf after your ministrations?’

‘No one has complained yet,’ replied Holm shortly. ‘And I have poked around in the ears of dozens of small children.’

Children who might not appreciate the fact that they had been deprived of one of their senses, thought Bartholomew, deeply unimpressed. Dunning spoke before he could pursue the matter.

‘How about a little music, Holm? You say you have a fine voice, but we have yet to hear it, and I am in the mood to be entertained.’

Holm had hummed when he had ‘assisted’ Bartholomew with the surgery on Coslaye’s skull, and the physician recalled flinching several times at the sour notes that had emerged – and being obliged to ask him to desist in the end, lest it distressed their semi-conscious patient.

‘Another time,’ said Holm, but not before Bartholomew caught the flash of alarm in his eyes: he had lied about his accomplishments. ‘When you have a lutenist to accompany me.’

‘I can play the lute,’ said Bartholomew wickedly. He was not very good at it, but he suspected it would not be his lack of talent that would be evident.

‘And I sing,’ said Michael, who did indeed have a fine voice. ‘We shall perform a duet.’

‘A duet?’ cried Julitta, entering the room with a jug. ‘How delightful!’

Holm stepped forward, took her hand and raised it to his lips. For the first time, Bartholomew studied him closely, to see why so many women considered him attractive. Reluctantly, for he found himself loath to think anything good about the man, he conceded that Holm was unusually handsome: he had arresting dark blue eyes to go with his golden mane, and his tight-fitting gipon, or tunic, had been cut to show off his slender figure to its best advantage. When he smiled at Julitta, even Bartholomew, who was not usually very observant about such matters, could see her heart melting with adoration for him.

‘Not tonight, dearest. I am hoarse from advising patients all day, and when you hear me sing, I want my voice to be at its best. I should hate to disappoint you.’

Julitta held his hand and gazed fondly at him until Dunning broke the moment by beginning to describe the ceremony at which Holm had been installed as a member of the Guild of Corpus Christi. The surgeon preened when Dunning remarked that he had never heard the oath of allegiance taken with such gravitas and dignity.

‘Vale said the same,’ he confided smugly. ‘Before he died, of course.’

‘Did you know Vale well?’ asked Michael, pouring himself more claret.

‘Not really,’ Holm replied. ‘We both arrived in Cambridge on Easter Day, so as newly established practitioners, we were naturally drawn to each other. But we were not friends.’

‘You told me you liked him,’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling Holm’s wish, expressed as they had walked home together the previous evening, that it had been another physician who had died.

‘No, I said I preferred him to the other medici,’ corrected Holm pedantically. ‘That is not the same as liking him.’

‘So what did you think of him?’ Michael sounded a little exasperated.

‘That he was a scoundrel, particularly where women were concerned. No lady was safe from his pawing advances, not even married ones.’

‘Vale once boasted to Bonabes that he was going to seduce Ruth,’ said Dunning, scowling his indignation. ‘Bonabes said he would run him through if he tried.’

‘But please do not tell her,’ begged Julitta uncomfortably. ‘She does not know that part of the story, and it would embarrass her if she thought she had been the subject of such a discussion.’ She glanced pointedly at her father. ‘In fact, I thought we had agreed to keep it between ourselves.’

‘So we did,’ slurred Dunning, chagrined. ‘I forgot. Anyway, suffice to say that, out of spite, Vale put about a tale that Ruth was his secret lover. I imagine some folk believed it.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Holm chivalrously. ‘No one could believe ill of Sir Eustace Dunning’s daughters. They are paragons of virtue, as well as beauty.’

Greasy, thought Bartholomew sourly, recalling what Edith had said about the surgeon.

The discussion ranged off on to other matters then, and Bartholomew listened with half an ear, feeling his dislike of Holm mount by the moment. Was it because the man was an appalling sycophant, and his toadying was nauseating? Or because he was a dismal surgeon, too timid to perform procedures that should have been second nature, yet unafraid to dose children with unsuitable medicines or jab probes into their ears? Or because he was so flagrantly wrong for Julitta? Bartholomew studied her covertly. He longed to know her better, but in less than a month her marital status would mean that even the most innocent of friendships would be inappropriate.

‘Will some of these books wend their way to the Common Library?’ Michael asked when the conversation returned to Dunning’s collection. ‘Or will you spread your largesse more widely? Michaelhouse is always looking for new tomes.’

Bartholomew choked into his wine, startled by the brazen rapacity of the remark.

‘Michaelhouse cannot have these,’ replied Dunning. ‘They will be Julitta’s when I die.’

‘What if she would rather have them sooner?’ asked Holm. He smiled at his fiancée. ‘Perhaps you should consider making them part of her dowry. Then I shall be able to read them to her as we spend romantic evenings together by the fire.’

Julitta flushed with pleasure at the notion, although Bartholomew was inclined to suspect that the surgeon was simply trying to negotiate himself a more profitable arrangement. Or was jealousy making him ungracious? But when Dunning shook his head at the suggestion, and he saw the flash of avaricious disappointment in Holm’s eyes, he knew he was right to be suspicious.

‘She cannot have them yet,’ slurred Dunning. ‘I may not peruse the things myself, but I like to see them on my shelves. They look pretty in their neat rows. Do you not agree?’

Unwilling to listen to Holm’s gushing agreement, Bartholomew took down a psalter. He suspected, from the profusion of chickens, devils and ribauldequins, that it had come from the Carmelites, and was impressed by their collective talent. The weapon in particular was uncannily accurate, right down to the specks of rust on its metal barrels. He found himself thinking about Poitiers, and the fact that Dame Pelagia had admitted to being there, which led him to consider anew her reasons for descending on the town.

Had she dispatched Vale and the others, perhaps because they were experimenting on the sly, and she disapproved? But if she had, then surely she would not have lingered in Cambridge afterwards? Or had the quartet encountered the hooded men who had demanded the formula for wildfire, been mistaken for medici and killed when they had been unable to provide what was wanted? Bartholomew shuddered. It was not a comfortable thought.

The sun was setting, a great orange ball in a cloudless sky. A blackbird trilled from the top of the oak tree in Dunning’s garden, and there was a pleasing scent of warm earth and summer flowers. Michael settled more comfortably on a bench and refilled his goblet, but Bartholomew stood to leave. He still did not feel completely well, and knew it would be sensible to go home and secure a decent night’s sleep.

‘You ate virtually nothing this evening,’ said Julitta, escorting him down the stairs. He was acutely aware of Holm’s proprietary gaze on her as they went. ‘Are you ill?’

‘My stomach is unsettled from swallowing bad water. It is nothing serious.’

‘I see.’ Julitta looked thoughtful. ‘What would you prescribe for a patient who came to you with the symptoms you are experiencing?’

‘Nothing too strong. Perhaps a tonic of lovage root and mint. Why?’

‘I shall make you one.’ Julitta raised her hand when he began to object. ‘Come with me to the kitchen. I have those ingredients, and it will not take a moment to boil some water.’

‘You boil water for tonics?’ asked Bartholomew, impressed. He did the same himself, although it was a practice his medical colleagues deemed deeply unorthodox.

‘Of course! Unboiled water causes fluxes. I strain it, too, through a cloth, to eliminate further impurities.’

Bartholomew was very interested. Here was a woman after his own heart! ‘Have you evidence to suggest that strained water is more effective?’ he asked keenly.

Julitta smiled. ‘I am afraid not. You see, so much sinister-looking sludge adheres to the cloth after filtering that I would never dream of not doing it now. I strain and boil all our water, even the stuff we use to wash our hands.’

Bartholomew gazed at her. The benefits of hand-washing was another practice his fellow medici scoffed at, yet here was Julitta speaking as though hygiene was routine in her household. He found himself warming to her even more.

They reached the kitchen, which was spacious and spotlessly clean. Julitta indicated he was to sit at the table while she worked, and began chatting about mutual acquaintances – especially Edith, for whom she held a particular affection. At that point her conquest of Bartholomew was complete, for he was always willing to think well of people who praised his beloved sister. He listened to her with mounting affection, quite forgetting her fiancé sitting upstairs.

Eventually, she presented him with a cup. He sipped the contents warily, not sure how he felt about a woman preparing medicines he usually made himself. Its flavour was more pleasant than his own brews, and he realised that she had added honey. He resolved to do likewise in future – assuming his bet with Holm did not plunge him deep into debt, of course, and prevent him from purchasing ingredients for remedies ever again.

‘Thank you for reasoning with your father in St Mary the Great this morning,’ he said, watching her place the used pan in a bucket, ready to be washed the following day. ‘I think he might have decried me as a warlock had you not intervened.’

‘Oh, he would,’ she agreed. ‘And you do have a reputation for necromancy.’

‘Yes, but it is undeserved,’ he said defensively.

Julitta regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Is it? Despite my defence of you, I know you were planning to slice into Vale. I could tell by the angle of your blade.’

Bartholomew was horrified – he did not want her to think him a ghoul. Or a sorcerer, for that matter. ‘Then why did you tell your father I was cutting knotted laces?’

‘Well, it was only Vale, and I have never liked him.’ Bartholomew glanced sharply at her, and saw her eyes were twinkling: she was teasing him. Then her expression became sombre. ‘I defended you because I want you to find out what happened to Northwood, which you cannot do if you are in gaol for desecrating corpses. He was a dear, kind man, who often came to read to me, and I shall miss him terribly. He was teaching me philosophy.’

‘Was he?’ Here was yet another aspect of Northwood’s complex character: the patient tutor. ‘Why?’

‘Because the subject fascinates me. If he was feloniously killed, I want the culprit brought to justice, and if that means misleading my father about the Corpse Examiner who is helping to investigate his death, then so be it. Besides, I know you wielded the knife only because you wanted answers. There was no wickedness in it.’

Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, feeling her remarks entitled her to an explanation. ‘I think Northwood and the others were poisoned, but an external examination will never prove it. The only way to know for certain is to look inside them, to see whether damage to entrails …’ He trailed off, not sure how much detail to provide.

Julitta winced. ‘I can see how such a procedure might be useful, but it is horrible nonetheless. Perhaps you had better not embark on it, especially in St Mary the Great, where the chances of being caught are rather high.’

‘It will not happen again,’ he said fervently. ‘I have learned my lesson.’

Julitta smiled. ‘Good. Then let us say no more about it.’ She cleared her throat apprehensively. ‘At the risk of sounding selfish, one of the reasons I was distressed by Northwood’s demise was because he had offered to teach me to read. I do not suppose you would oblige, would you?’

Bartholomew blinked, wondering whether he had misheard, but could tell from the hope in her eyes that he had not. His heart clamoured at him to say yes, to earn time in her company, but the rational part of his mind reminded him that he was too busy and she was betrothed.

‘If you like,’ he heard himself say. ‘But why ask me? I imagine Holm would enjoy–’

‘It will be my wedding gift to him,’ said Julitta, eyes sparkling. ‘A literate woman to manage his household, and to provide him with intelligent conversation during long winter evenings.’

‘Holm is a very lucky man,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

Julitta laughed happily. ‘And I am a very lucky woman.’

It was dark by the time Bartholomew left Dunning’s house. The High Street was full of apprentices and labourers who had spent the evening beautifying their masters’ property in preparation for the upcoming festival, and who had then gone to slake their thirst in alehouses. Now they were spilling out in drunken gaggles. Although there had been no serious trouble between the University and the town for months, a lone scholar still presented an attractive target for drink-fuelled townsmen, so Bartholomew cut down the alley that led to Milne Street to avoid unnecessary confrontations. He recalled that Cynric was supposed to be accompanying him out at night, as per Michael’s recommendation following the attack by the hooded men who had wanted the formula for wildfire, but it had not occurred to him to ask the book-bearer to oblige.

Unfortunately, Milne Street contained its own collection of rowdy gangs, so with a weary sigh, he aimed for Cholles Lane instead. He strode past Batayl Hostel, Newe Inn and Holm’s house, and turned right when he reached the river. There were no taverns on or by the towpath, and he would be able to enter Michaelhouse by its back gate.

As he walked, the clouds drifted away from the moon to reveal shadowy figures on the path ahead. He slowed, assuming some of the boisterous rabble had decided to cool themselves with a refreshing dip. They were everywhere that night, it seemed.

But there was nothing in the swift, confident way the figures moved to suggest they had been at the ale, and as he watched, he had the distinct impression that they were engaged in something felonious. He turned away, not so foolish as to challenge them on his own, and supposed that he would have to find yet another route home. But he had taken no more than a few steps back the way he had come before he stopped again.

Two men stood in front of him. It was too dark to see anything of them, other than the fact that their clothes appeared to be black and they wore some form of armour – he could hear leather creak and the clink of metal as they moved.

‘Cut his throat,’ said one to his companion. ‘We have no time for nuisances.’

The other stepped forward, so Bartholomew whipped around and fled, acutely aware of footsteps pounding behind him. His route took him towards the shadowy figures farther on, but they had not ordered his death and he thought their presence would serve to foil the killers on his heels. He soon realised his mistake. Heads jerked up at the sound of running feet, and he heard the distinctive hiss of swords being drawn. Too late, he saw they were wearing the same kind of armour as the pair who were chasing him.

He skidded to a standstill, and one of his pursuers barrelled into him, sending him sprawling. He tried to stagger to his feet, but they forced him to the ground again. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Visions of Adam’s slit throat flooded his mind, and he fought as hard as he could. Then he was released abruptly, and all he could hear was retreating footsteps. He struggled to his knees, spinning around in alarm when he sensed a presence behind him.

‘Easy, Doctor. It is only us.’

The voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. He shot to his feet, and began to back away. His heart was pounding hard enough to hurt, and his stomach was churning. Where was Dame Pelagia when he needed her?

‘It is Torvin,’ came the voice again. ‘The riverman.’

Bartholomew peered at him. Torvin was one of his patients, a member of the silent, insular community who lived in the ramshackle hovels that lined this part of the river. They eked a meagre existence from fishing and scraps scavenged from the Market Square, and their womenfolk weaved baskets and mats from rushes, which were exchanged for bread.

‘I am here, too,’ came another voice, this one instantly recognisable. It was Isnard the bargeman, swinging along on his crutches – Bartholomew had amputated his leg after an accident some years before. ‘But you should not be. This is no place for a scholar after dark.’

‘Nowhere is, tonight,’ muttered Bartholomew. He looked around for his assailants, but all he could see were riverfolk, distinctive in their ill-assorted rags and reed hats. ‘Who were those men?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Isnard. ‘However, this is the rivermen’s domain, and they do not take kindly to strangers coming at night. They drove the trespassers off with a few well-placed arrows.’

‘We just frightened them,’ Torvin clarified hastily. ‘We are not killers, despite what is being brayed about us in the town.’

‘I know.’ Bartholomew smiled briefly at the silent throng. ‘But I suspect the rogues you just drove off are; I think they are the men who murdered Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman. Sheriff Tulyet has been trying to find them.’

‘Unfortunately, he will not succeed,’ said Torvin. ‘They are too clever for him.’

‘I thought you said they were strangers.’ Bartholomew’s voice was unsteady now the danger was over, and so were his legs. ‘So how do you know they are too clever?’

‘Because I have eyes,’ replied Torvin softly. ‘And I have watched them several times now. They move like water rats – silent, fast and deadly. The Sheriff is no match for them.’

‘Are they smugglers?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Maybe,’ said Isnard. ‘They certainly like to loiter around the town’s quieter waterways. Moreover, they are well-armed and ruthless, and you are right – it probably was them who killed Adam, the night-watchman and …’ He trailed off, and shot the rivermen an awkward glance.

‘And my nephew,’ finished Torvin. ‘But the Sheriff thinks he was a beggar.’

‘Do not tell Tulyet, though,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew in an undertone. ‘They cannot afford a priest or a grave-digger, but the Sheriff can, and he will see things decently done. The lad will gain more from being thought a vagrant, than from being named as one of them.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will have to report what happened. Tulyet needs to know that armed men are haunting his town.’

‘I will tell him, too,’ said Isnard. ‘First thing tomorrow. Thank you for betting five marks on our integrity, by the way. Holm is always saying vile things about me and the riverfolk, and we were touched by your faith.’

Wryly, Bartholomew supposed that if the five-mark wager had induced them to come to his rescue, then it was money very well spent.

The next day was cloudy, but still warm, and the breeze was from the south. It carried the scent of ripening crops, and Bartholomew inhaled deeply as he stood in Michaelhouse’s yard, waiting to walk to church. He stifled a sigh when William and Thelnetham began sniping over who was to preach that day. Suttone joined in, but the debate came to an abrupt end when Clippesby’s rat made an appearance. It shot towards Thelnetham, who shrieked girlishly, and pandemonium erupted, with the Gilbertine cowering, William guffawing and Suttone yelling at Clippesby to catch it.

‘Our Dominican is not as lunatic as he would have us believe,’ said Ayera, as he watched. ‘He released that thing deliberately, to quell the spat. And it worked, after a fashion.’

Langelee arrived, scowling when he saw his Fellows in such noisy disarray. Crossly, he whipped open the gate, and strode towards St Michael’s, leaving them to scramble to catch up with him. Ayera ran to his side, and a reluctant smile stole over the Master’s face when he heard what Clippesby had done. Bartholomew was next, with Michael slouching beside him; William, Suttone and Clippesby were on their heels; and Thelnetham was last, because it had taken him longer to regain his composure. He was still furious, although Bartholomew suspected it would be William, not Clippesby, who would bear the brunt of his ire.

‘What time did you come home last night?’ Bartholomew asked Michael, noting that the monk looked decidedly fragile.

‘I cannot recall, and I should not have stayed so late, because Holm is hardly congenial company. But I kept hoping that Dunning would let something slip about the men who died in the garden of the house he donated to the University.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Dunning is a suspect now?’

Michael put a hand to his head. ‘I cannot recall why I thought so now, although it made sense at the time. But it was a waste of effort – I learned nothing to help us. Other than that Dunning has a theory to explain why Coslaye was almost killed by Acton’s Questio Disputata.’

‘What is it?’ asked Bartholomew, when the monk paused.

‘That some scholar decided its binding was inferior, so elected to hurl it as far away from him as possible.’ Michael smiled. ‘I only wish it were true, because a bibliophile with those sorts of standards would be easy to identify.’

‘You still have not given up on that case? Everyone else has forgotten about it.’

‘Coslaye has not, and neither have his Batayl colleagues. Besides, as I have explained before, we cannot have scholars resorting to violence when ballots do not go the way they hope.’

‘I suppose not. What will you do today?’

‘Loiter in Cholles Lane and waylay passers-by to see whether anyone noticed anything odd on Tuesday night or early Wednesday. I shall question the Carmelites and the Batayl men again, too.’

‘Do you want me to help?’

‘I can manage, thank you. Terrorise your students into cramming more knowledge into their already overloaded minds today, and we shall resume our enquiries together tomorrow.’

Bartholomew took him at his word, and after church he staged a series of mock-disputations designed to hone his pupils’ debating skills. He drove them hard, but felt it was worthwhile, despite the fact that they reeled from the hall at the end of the morning complaining that their heads were spinning. He left them to their grumbles, and went to tell Tulyet what had happened the previous night.

Although Cambridge was mostly flat, it did have a hill, and it was on top of this that the Normans had raised a castle some three hundred years earlier. It had originally comprised a wooden structure atop a motte, but a lot of money had been spent on it since, and it was now a sizeable fortress. There was a spacious bailey, enclosed by curtain walls and ditches; at each corner was a sturdy drum tower, while the south-eastern wall boasted the huge, cylindrical Great Tower, the strongest and most formidable part of the complex.

Access to the bailey was gained by crossing a rickety drawbridge and ducking under a portcullis that was rumoured to be hanging by a thread. It was not that Tulyet was careless about maintenance, but that he preferred to divert funds to more urgent causes than the upkeep of a castle with no serious enemies. Beyond them was the Gatehouse, an impressive structure bristling with arrow slits and machicolations. Bartholomew was waved through it with smiles and cheerful greetings from the guards, most of whom he had treated for the occasional bout of fever or minor injury sustained during training.

The Sheriff was in his office in the Great Tower. Clerks, not warriors, surrounded him, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves, almost invisible behind the piles of documents that awaited his attention. He beamed when he saw Bartholomew, and rose to his feet with obvious relief.

‘You cannot leave!’ objected one of the clerks, as Tulyet made for the door. Bartholomew was surprised to note it was Willelmus from the Carmelite Priory – the man who liked to draw chickens. ‘We have not finished the tax returns for–’

‘They can wait,’ said Tulyet crisply. ‘We have been labouring all morning, and I need a rest.’

‘I thought you were a White Friar,’ said Bartholomew to the scribe.

‘He is,’ replied Tulyet, as Willelmus squinted, trying to identify the physician from his voice. ‘And he would much rather be painting hens. But my own clerks are overwhelmed by the additional work the taxes represent, so Prior Etone lent him to me.’

Willelmus did look as though he would rather be in his scriptorium, especially when the man he was supposed to be helping abandoned his duties to pass the time of day with friends, leaving him to twiddle his thumbs. He sighed his exasperation as the Sheriff escaped, standing in such a way that one hand rested pointedly on a pile of documents. Clearly, there was still a lot to do.

‘He is so keen to get back to his real work that he is something of a slave-driver,’ confided Tulyet, clattering down the spiral staircase. ‘I am eager to finish, too, because the King hates his money to be delivered late. But I have my limits.’

When they reached the bailey, Tulyet stretched until his shoulders cracked. Then he turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing the fresh air with obvious relief. He had always hated sitting indoors, being a naturally energetic, active man.

‘If you are working on these levies, who is investigating Adam’s death?’ asked Bartholomew.

Tulyet opened his eyes. ‘I am, with every free moment I have. But the taxes are almost ready now. We have great crates of coins locked in the Great Tower, waiting to be taken to London.’

‘Perhaps you should post extra guards on the Gatehouse,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘I imagine every robber in the county will be interested in “great crates of coins”.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘It would have to be a very bold thief who attempted to raid a royal castle. But what can I do for you today? Are you here to tell me what happened last night? Isnard said you would come.’

Bartholomew described the events of the previous evening in as much detail as he could, yet although Tulyet listened attentively, the physician was acutely aware that he had little of substance to relate. He could not describe the men, other than to say that they had worn armour, and he was unable to guess what they had been doing. His only real contribution was that the riverfolk considered them strangers, so they were probably not townsmen or scholars.

‘I sent one of my soldiers to inspect that strip of riverbank, but there was nothing to see,’ said Tulyet when he had finished. ‘Isnard had garnered a few more details from the riverfolk – for which I am grateful, because they would never have confided in me – but it all adds up to very little.’

‘I think they are the men who killed Adam,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of them ordered his crony to cut my throat.’

‘You are almost certainly right. Moreover, I suspect they have claimed more than three victims. Several other folk have gone missing of late, and I cannot help but wonder whether they have had their throats cut, too, and their bodies hidden or tossed in the river. It is a bad state of affairs, and I would be hunting these villains now, were it not for these damned revenues.’

‘Can you not delegate those to someone else?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that catching killers was a lot more important than money, although he suspected the King would disagree.

‘I wish I could, but I have no wish to lose my post because a minion is careless with his arithmetic. The King takes his taxes seriously – it is expensive to keep the Prince of Wales campaigning in France. Did I tell you that we are ordered to provide a ribauldequin this year, too, as part of our payment? Still, it could have been worse – York had to make five hundred hauberks.’

Bartholomew, gazed at him, disgusted that the taxes his College was forced to pay – which always necessitated draconian economies and sacrifice – were being spent on such a wicked contraption. He was not stupid enough to say so to one of His Majesty’s most loyal officers, though, and floundered around for an innocuous response. ‘Are ribauldequins difficult to manufacture?’

‘Very. They require precision casting of high-quality metal. It is finished now, thank God. It took a while, because I had never seen one, and I had to find out what they entail.’

‘The King’s clerks did not provide specifications?’

‘They did, but we needed more detail. I would have asked you to help – you saw them in action at Poitiers – but I had a feeling you would refuse, like Northwood did.’

‘Northwood?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why would you ask him?’

‘Because he was also at Poitiers, as chaplain to one of the Prince’s generals. But he said that while he would be happy to destroy a ribauldequin, he would never assist in the making of one.’

‘I did not know he was at the battle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He never mentioned it.’

‘He claimed it was the nastiest experience he had ever had, and disliked talking about it. He confided in me only because we were friends.’

‘Holm was at Poitiers, too.’ Bartholomew felt like adding that the surgeon had sided with the French, but was not entirely sure how Tulyet would react, and although he disliked Holm, he did not want to be responsible for his arrest.

‘I doubt he did any fighting,’ said Tulyet disparagingly. ‘The man looks lean and fit, but there is no real strength in him. Women fall at his feet – and even my wife claims he has the body of a Greek god – but he is a feeble specimen in my view.’

‘It is a pity we spend money on fighting the French,’ said Bartholomew. He fully agreed with Tulyet, but was afraid that once he began to list the surgeon’s faults, he might not be able to stop. ‘There are much better causes.’

Tulyet nodded ruefully. ‘Like dredging the King’s Ditch, which is so full of silt that anyone can paddle across it after a dry spell, and it provides no kind of defence for the town at all.’

‘Or feeding the town’s poor,’ added Bartholomew.

Tulyet was not listening. ‘I had hoped the French would sue for peace after Poitiers. Their country is in a terrible state: their army is in disarray, their peasants are on the verge of rebellion; and their King is our prisoner but they cannot afford the ransom. Neither can a number of their nobles, including the Archbishop of Sens, the Count of Eu and the Sire de Rougé.’

‘It was in a terrible state before the battle,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the devastation wrought by the Prince of Wales’s troops. ‘Crops and villages burnt, livestock slaughtered. I do not blame the peasants for declining to pay these ransoms. Why should they, when these nobles taxed them in order to raise troops for defence, but then failed to protect them?’

‘That is a recklessly seditious remark, Matt,’ said Tulyet mildly. ‘Although Northwood said much the same. Incidentally, have you heard the rumour that his death is connected to Sawtre’s – that all five dead scholars were struck down because they went against the wishes of their College, hostel or convent by supporting the University’s new library?’

‘Yes, but there is no evidence to say it is true.’

‘There is also a tale that says God is the culprit,’ Tulyet went on, ‘although I do not believe it myself. However, it is a notion that is gaining credence in many quarters.’

‘I have heard that the Devil might be responsible, too.’ Bartholomew smiled. ‘There cannot be many instances where God and Satan are credited with the same deed. But how did you build your ribauldequin if you have never seen one and people refused to advise you? No, do not tell me! Riborowe! He has an unhealthy fascination with the infernal things.’

‘Yes, he does, thankfully, or I would have been floundering. Langelee and Chancellor Tynkell were helpful, too, and so was Walkelate.’

‘Walkelate?’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘But he is an architect.’

‘Precisely. And architects build things. He was able to take the others’ sketches and convert them into working plans. Would you like to see the finished article? It is quite impressive.’

‘No, thank you!’ Bartholomew shuddered. ‘If I never set eyes on one of those vile creations again, it will be too soon.’

Bartholomew was called to Batayl Hostel before he could return to Michaelhouse, but was not sorry that the summons meant he would miss the midday meal. His innards were still tender, despite Julitta’s tonic, and nothing at College was likely to tempt him – the recent tax demand meant that Michaelhouse was in an especially lean phase, so Langelee had ordered the cooks to make meals as unappetising as possible in the hope that his scholars would eat less, and thus save him money.

Batayl was a small, shabby building, comprising a single room in which Coslaye, Browne and their eight students ate, slept, taught and relaxed. There was a tiny yard at the back that contained a reeking latrine, and any cooking was either done at the hearth, or taken to the communal ovens in the Market Square.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ said Michael, who was waiting outside for him. ‘I came to ask my questions, but when I saw the state of its residents … well, suffice to say that I sent for you, and will leave my investigation until they are feeling better.’

When Bartholomew entered Batayl, he was immediately assailed by the reek of cheap candles, burnt fat and unwashed feet, an odour he had come to associate with the poorer kind of hostel. He was taken aback to see that one wall had been given a garish mural, sure it had not been there the last time he had visited.

‘It is the Battle of Poitiers,’ explained Coslaye, hands on his stomach as he lay on a pallet. Several lads were curled in groaning misery around him, while the rest were outside, vying for a place in the latrines. ‘Most of the action took place near a wood, which you can see at the bottom. The English warriors are the ones with haloes, and the French have horns, tails and forked tongues.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, staggered by the amount of blood that had been depicted.

‘It is Principal Coslaye’s handiwork,’ said Browne, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘He did it when he was recovering from the surgery you performed on his head.’

‘It is very … colourful,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Coslaye was waiting for a compliment, although the truth was that the whole thing was ridiculously gruesome. In one section, headless French knights were still busily doing battle with the angelic English, their limbs operated by the demons that sat on their shoulders.

‘It was either this, or a picture of Satan being welcomed at the Carmelite Priory,’ elaborated Coslaye. ‘I opted for Poitiers when I learned that red paint is cheaper than all the white I would have needed for their habits.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew changed the subject, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute that was none of his concern. ‘What happened here? Did you drink bad water? Or eat tainted food?’

‘No, we have been poisoned,’ declared Coslaye. ‘By the Carmelites. They slipped a toxin into the stew we all ate. Well, Browne did not have any, because he does not like French food.’ He indicated a handsome student who was older than the others. ‘Pepin did the cooking today, you see, and he is French.’

‘Is he?’ Bartholomew was unable to stop himself from glancing at the mural.

‘Yes, but he is not the same as his countrymen,’ whispered Coslaye confidentially. ‘He is a decent soul, whereas the rest of them are villains. We do not think of him as foreign.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how Pepin could endure such bigotry. He turned his thoughts back to medicine, and looked at Browne. ‘What did you eat?’

‘A bit of bread and cheese,’ replied Browne. ‘But I am poisoned, too, because I feel sick.’

‘That is because you are in a stuffy room with a lot of vomiting men,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Go outside, and you will feel better.’

‘You want me out of the way so you can chant spells without me hearing,’ said Browne accusingly, although he went to stand by the open door. ‘You know how I deplore your association with Lucifer.’

‘Bartholomew has no association with Lucifer,’ snapped Coslaye irritably. ‘You talk nonsense, man – and in front of our students, too. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘What was in this meal you shared?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, eager to identify the cause of the problem so he could escape. The smelly hostel was no place to linger, and he had no wish to spend time with the antagonistic Browne, either.

‘It was a recipe from my home in Angoulême,’ supplied Pepin in such perfectly unaccented French that it could only be his mother tongue. ‘It contained–’

‘Angoulême?’ blurted Bartholomew before he could stop himself. ‘That is near Poitiers.’

‘Actually, it is some distance away,’ countered Pepin, shooting an uneasy glance at Coslaye. ‘And the roads are poor, so it is impossible to ride from one to the other in less than three days.’

Bartholomew knew he was lying: he had done it in half a day, on foot. But he said nothing, already regretting having made the observation in the first place.

Coslaye regarded Pepin suspiciously. ‘If you were in the area, did you see the battle fought?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Pepin, swallowing hard. ‘I am a scholar, not a warrior.’

‘So is Bartholomew, but he still joined in,’ jibed Browne. ‘And it is not something to be proud of, either. Civilised men should know better than to slaughter each other like savages.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Coslaye. ‘It was a great day for England, and I wish I had been there. I am envious of you, Bartholomew. I am envious of Riborowe of the Carmelites, too, and Holm the surgeon, although he contradicts himself when he describes the action, and his account does not tally with others I have heard. Ergo, I am disinclined to believe he took part.’

‘You should not be listening to battle stories at all,’ muttered Browne. He did not speak loudly enough for Coslaye to hear, although Pepin nodded heartfelt agreement. ‘It is unseemly.’

‘Are you sure you were not at the battle, Pepin?’ Coslaye asked, turning his fierce gaze on the student again. ‘We shall not expel you, if you were. I only want to know out of interest.’

‘No, I was not there,’ said Pepin levelly. ‘I rarely visit Poitiers. It is dirty and smells of onions.’

‘What was in the stew?’ asked Bartholomew, leading the discussion back to medicine. He hoped his incautious remark would not bring trouble to Pepin in the future.

‘It is called tout marron,’ replied Pepin, patently grateful to be talking about something else. ‘And it contained all manner of things – meat left over from Sunday, a bit of fish, some winter vegetables. And a lot of garlic. Garlic works wonders on food past its best.’

‘It might disguise the flavour, but not the impact,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Sunday was five days ago. That is a long time for meat to be stored, especially now the weather is warm.’

‘Times are hard,’ said Browne. ‘We cannot afford to throw food away, no matter what its state of decomposition. We are not rich, like cosseted Fellows in Colleges.’

‘It is cheaper than buying medicines for the consequences,’ retorted Bartholomew tartly, writing out a tonic for the apothecary to prepare. He carried enough to soothe one or two roiling stomachs, but nowhere enough to remedy an entire hostel. Batayl would have to purchase its own.

He returned to Michaelhouse just in time to intercept his students, who were on their way out. All had combed their hair and donned their finery in anticipation of an afternoon in the town.

‘We worked hard this morning, sir,’ explained Valence, his senior pupil, defensively. ‘So we thought we would … sit in the garden and continue our studies in a more relaxed atmosphere.’

‘Very relaxed,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘You do not have a single scroll among you.’

Valence flushed, caught out. ‘But the other Fellows are letting their lads study alone for the rest of the day! You are the only one who insists on holding classes.’

‘Perhaps they are satisfied with their pupils’ progress,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you still have much to learn. Can you tell me how to make an infusion of lily of the valley?’

‘I imagine you boil it up,’ replied Valence sullenly. ‘Or pound it into a pulp.’

‘For which ailments can it be used?’ asked Bartholomew, unimpressed.

‘Spots,’ suggested another lad. ‘Colic, fevers and consumption. And warts and broken limbs.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘If all that were true, medical herbaria would never need grow anything else. But these are basic questions, and you should know the answers.’

‘All right,’ said Valence, throwing up his hands in defeat. ‘You win, sir. Shall I read about lily of the valley to the others, or will you do it?’

Supposing he could concede to their desire to be outside, Bartholomew took them to the orchard. It was pleasant, sitting under the fresh green leaves, with bees buzzing in the long grass and birds twittering above their heads. He read until the bell rang to announce the end of the day’s teaching, and was wholly mystified when his students made an immediate and unanimous bid for freedom.

While he had been busy, patients had sent word that they needed to see him, so he spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening visiting. His customers included Isnard, who had been punched during a brawl at the King’s Head; Prior Etone, whose chilblains were paining him; and finally Chancellor Tynkell, who had worked himself into a state.

‘I am agitated to the point of nausea,’ Tynkell announced, when Bartholomew reached the Chancellor’s office in St Mary the Great. ‘I wish I had never started this library business. The strain is too great.’

‘Why should it distress you now?’ asked Bartholomew, reaching into his bag for a remedy to soothe ragged nerves. ‘By this time next week, the building will be open. You are past the worst.’

‘Walkelate has been splendid,’ agreed Tynkell miserably. ‘I did not think he would succeed in time, but he has worked extremely hard. But it is the inaugural ceremony I am worried about now. Opinionated men from Batayl, King’s Hall, Gonville and the Carmelite Priory will make a fuss and spoil it. I asked Brother Michael if we could ban them from the festivities, but he said no.’

‘Did he explain why?’

‘Because barring the Colleges and convents would leave the hostels, and the scholars enrolled in those cannot always be guaranteed to behave, either.’

‘Why do you need a ceremony? Why not just unlock the door and let people in?’

‘Because Dunning wants one. Besides, I am hoping it will encourage donations of books.’

Bartholomew had no answers for him. ‘Are you really retiring next year?’ he asked instead.

Tynkell nodded. ‘Yes. I am tired of being Michael’s lackey. Everyone knows he runs the University anyway, so he can have himself elected properly. He is not very pleased, but it is time I put my foot down.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I shall pursue my private studies. Why do you think I want a Common Library? I am not a member of a wealthy College, and it was the only way I could get access to all the books I shall want to read.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the selfish admission.

‘And I want to be remembered for something other than being Michael’s puppet, too,’ Tynkell went on. He swallowed the draught Bartholomew handed him, then released a gusty sigh. ‘Thank you. And thank you for having the courage to vote for my library. It cannot have been easy to stand against Michael. I know I would not have done it, had I been in your shoes.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘He is not such a dragon when you come to know him.’

‘But I do know him. And he is a dragon – a great big fat one with heavy bones.’

It was late evening by the time Bartholomew returned to the College. The students were in the hall, some revising for their examinations but most enjoying the opportunity to relax with their friends. He made for the conclave, the pleasant chamber at the far end of the hall that was the undisputed domain of the Fellows; students and servants were not permitted inside.

‘Where are Langelee and Ayera?’ he asked, taking a seat at the table and pouring himself a cup of wine that had been watered to a pale pink. All the other Fellows were there.

‘Who knows,’ replied Thelnetham, patting a bright yellow scarf in place around his neck. He primped and fluffed even more when he realised that William was watching, clearly intending to antagonise the incendiary Franciscan. ‘They said they were going out, but declined to mention where.’

‘Langelee would never confide in you,’ scoffed William. ‘He thinks you are a peacock.’

‘That is a compliment compared to what he said about you,’ Thelnetham flashed back. ‘But I shall not repeat it in public. Obscenities offend my delicate sensibilities.’

And then a quarrel was in progress. Suttone took William’s side, not because he liked the friar, but because he disliked the Gilbertine. Clippesby sat in a corner, and gave his entire concentration to the animal he was cradling. Bartholomew frowned when he saw it was the rat.

‘I had a wasted day, just as I predicted,’ said Michael, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the acrimonious babble. ‘Although I did successfully quell a spat between Ovyng Hostel and Peterhouse over the Common Library. Of course, arguments over that place are so common these days that it is hardly worth mentioning them.’

‘You learned nothing to help us with our enquiries?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not a thing. Let us hope we have better luck tomorrow.’