The Bookseller's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  I had done my best, and I had not expected an eager agreement from Miller Wooton.

  ‘Aye, well,’ I said. ‘I thought to mention it, since I was passing. There is just the one pup left.’

  ‘Runt of the litter, is it?’

  ‘Nay, I think we have the runt, but for all that she’s a sturdy little dog, and brave. All of the litter are strong and well grown. The mother is a champion ratter.’

  I would leave it at that. If Miller Wooton did not want the last puppy, I was sure another home could be found for it. As I turned to leave, a thought occurred to me.

  ‘Had you heard about the student fished out of the river below here on Monday?’

  He was already busy tying a fresh sack to the end of the chute and had his back to me.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘It was a lad called William Farringdon. Did you ever see him out this way? Did you see him on Monday, say between dinner and four o’the clock?’

  He did not bother to turn round.

  ‘There’s always students and other folk making free with my walkway to cross the river,’ he said sourly. ‘I’ve no way to stop them. As long as they don’t interfere with the weir gate or the machinery, I pay them no heed. And I don’t know this student.’

  He finished tying the sack and walked over to the great lever that released the water wheel to turn. There was a creak and groan of timber, then the whole mill building began to vibrate as the wheel started to move. The interlocking gears crashed together, and from overhead came the tooth-jarring grate of the mill wheels grinding together. The miller began to climb the ladder to the upper floors, and it was clear I would get no more out of him.

  It was slightly less noisy outside, but the flimsy walkway juddered under my feet from the movement of the great wheel driven by the force of the river. I made my way cautiously across to the far bank. But for that neat incision in William’s back, I could well believe that he had merely lost his balance here on the walkway and tumbled in.

  The ground in the meadow was still spongy with water absorbed during the winter floods, and although it had been sunny, even hot, earlier in the day, clouds were beginning to gather, passing over the sun from time to time and setting shadows racing across the meadow grass, leaching the wild flowers of colour. I shivered. I had not thought to bring a cloak, never expecting rain, but I feared I might suffer a sousing before I was done. The scent of warm grass rose around me as I brushed through it, intensified by that expectant feel in the air, which sharpens all smells before a storm. The outlines of the willows on the river’s edge were clear cut, like ink lines on parchment.

  When I reached the branch where Jordain and I had found the piece torn from William’s shirt, I hesitated. There was no certainty that his body had been washed down this tributary of the river. It could have come from either direction. The sky was growing more threatening by the minute. If I turned back now, I might just reach home before the storm broke. If I went on, I would be drenched. There was no longer any doubt of that. I was tempted, but having come so far, I decided to go on. If I did not finish what I had set out to do, I would simply have to come back another day. And Jordain was counting on me. I went on.

  At least I would spare myself the unpleasantness of wading across the river. I would make my way up the near side. It was narrow enough that I could see the other bank. If there was anything worth investigating I could always wade over further up. But as I trudged on, I could see nothing to suggest that William had been here.

  The walking was easy for the most part. As I drew further away from the main channel the ground rose very slightly and was a little drier, which made for surer footing. Even so, the whole area of water meadows was still very flat, and I knew that much of it flooded in winter. Some distance ahead of me I caught flashes of water where yet another main channel of the river ran roughly north to south, like the one on which Holywell Mill stood. The whole of the Cherwell was a veritable maze, like a tangle skein of yarn. The branch I was following probably flowed from over there, joining the two channels. I recalled that there was another mill on that far channel, the King’s Mill, to which the farms in those parts, like Yardley’s, were required to send their grain for grinding.

  I had nearly reached this other, larger, channel of the river, which I reckoned was the furthest point from which the body could have floated, when I noticed a small building half hidden in a clump of willows on the bank I was following. As I came nearer, I saw that it was yet another mill, but a very small one, and no longer in use, for several of the paddles of the wheel were broken and hung awry, giving it a skewed, desolate appearance. The building itself seemed sound, timber built and thatched, but was clearly deserted, for ivy and bindweed grew across the only window on the side facing me.

  It must have been some forlorn attempt in the past to harness the moderate power of this portion of the river, but it could never have driven anything more than small grindstones. There was no track leading to it from this direction, though perhaps there might be on the far side. I tried to remember what lay over there. The King’s Mill stood a short way up river, and it was easily reached from the road on the far side which led from the country end of the East Bridge to the village of Marston. Perhaps there was a track from the King’s Mill to this small mill, but why should anyone want to come here, instead of to the larger mill? Unless, of course, they wanted to avoid paying the substantial fees the royal mill demanded. That might explain both the mill’s origins and its abandonment. A brief attempt to outwit the king’s commissioners, soon closed down.

  Perhaps it would be worth taking a closer look at the building. There was no door on this side, only the broken wheel thrust into the river and the choked window. I circled round the clump of willows, behind the mill, and came to the upriver side. I noticed now that, whereas the grass along the bank I had been following showed no sign of having been flattened by passing feet, there was a clearly worn path through the meadow grass heading from this side of the building directly back toward Holywell Mill. I could just see the roof of the mill above the trees on this side of the miller’s walkway. So someone – or several people – were in the habit of walking directly here, cutting across the meadow, not following the bank down to the junction with the branch, then along the branch to here, the longer way that I had come. I thought I saw movement amongst the willows by Holywell Mill. It might be students on their way to the coney burrows further up, or it might be the miller himself about some task. It was too far away to be sure.

  Rounding the corner of the building I found, as I expected, the door to the mill, firmly closed, and also two windows, whose shutters on this side, unlike the other, had been cleared of the curtain of climbers. These had been recently cut back, by all the signs, for the thicker branches of ivy showed fresh cuts, and there was a heap of withering foliage at the foot of the wall. Someone, therefore, was using the mill, though not for milling. It might be a disgruntled villein, like the one I had met, run away from his master. Though such men usually tried to buy their freedom by taking up residence in a town. Or perhaps outlaws or footpads were using it. There were many masterless men roaming the countryside since the Death. In which case I would be wise to leave well alone.

  Yet having come so far, it seemed cowardly to turn my back and simply walk away. Besides, the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. It did not seem that anyone was about the place, for there was not a sound to be heard from inside, nothing but the meadow birds calling, and the stridulation of grasshoppers in the long grass. I could take shelter here until the shower passed, for I could not believe it would last long. Few of these spring showers do so. There was already a small fragment of blue sky beginning to show upwind.

  Despite the derelict appearance of the old mill, it boasted a stout door, and when I tried it, I found it would not open. I thought at first that it was merely warped with age, sticking to the frame, although it seemed sound enough. I lifted the latch again and heaved with my shoulder against the
boards. It remained immovable. There was a lock below the latch, which I had ignored at first, thinking no one would bother to lock an abandoned mill, which was clearly no longer of practical use. Nor would it make a comfortable dwelling for any but the most desperate, out in this desolate, damp place. In winter the ground floor would probably be flooded.

  I stood back, frustrated and annoyed. I had had a long walk, with nothing to show for it, and very shortly I was going to get a soaking. I was on the point of abandoning the place, debating whether I should return the way I had come or cross the other channel of the river at King’s Mill and seek shelter from the storm at Yardley’s farm. As I turned away from the building, my scrip swung heavily against my hip, and I remembered suddenly that it still contained the key I had found at the bottom of William’s satchel. Could it possibly be the key to this door? Perhaps it was not so unlikely. I had come searching for any sign that William might have been thrown into the river here. I had seen no trace. But here was a building on the bank of the river and on a direct path from Holywell Mill. Here was a locked door. And here was a key.

  I took the key from my scrip, weighed it for a moment in my hand. It was the right size. I slid it into the lock and turned. The lock was well oiled. It turned smoothly with a firm click as the key engaged each of the levers. I pressed the latch and the door opened with a slight creak of the hinges.

  My heart began to beat a little faster as I withdrew the key from the lock and dropped it back into my scrip. William, it seemed, had been here. At last I had found something which linked him with this part of the river. Whatever had happened, his body must have gone into the river here. Had he been stabbed because he had disturbed some ruffians who were hiding out in the old mill? I had better take care. As I took a hesitant step forward, I left the door wide open behind me, in case I had to run for my own life.

  But, wait! That would not do. If William had been killed for disturbing the nest of some rogues, why had he possessed a key to the mill? Even more confusing, if he had a key and had come all the way out here, why had the key been left behind in his room at Hart Hall? Unless someone else had a key, so that William would not have needed his. And that could only mean that he was meeting someone here.

  My eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light within the building. If the shutters on the two windows to either side of the door were opened, there would be a fair amount of light, especially in the morning, since they faced roughly east. Though William, surely, could not have come here in the mornings, since he was required to attend lectures. One shutter hung askew from a broken hinge and allowed some light to enter. More flowed from the open door, but the gathering storm had over-clouded the sun.

  The room was not very large, about the size of my own bed chamber, and much of the space was taken up with the usual clutter of mill machinery. It was, however, surprisingly clean. The floor had been swept. A new broom leaned against the bottom of the chute. There were no cobwebs in the corners or draped across the window frames. Any enterprising spider would have chosen such a favourable spot, so even the windows had been cleaned recently. As well as the mill equipment, there was a table, pushed against the wall below one of the windows, as if to catch the light, and the ordinary sort of three-legged turned stool you will find anywhere.

  I could see that there were a few objects on the table, so I went nearer, to make them out better.

  And I stopped dead, for I recognised one of the items at once. It was an inkwell, of rather unusual design. It was made of pewter, in the form of two scallop shells, clasping the cylinder which held the ink. The lid was in the form of a smaller scallop shell, which could be clipped down over the ink reservoir so that the whole could be carried about without the risk of spilling the contents.

  It belonged to William.

  ‘It was my grandfather’s,’ William had told me one day when I admired it. He brought it with him every day when he worked for me.

  ‘He bought it in Santiago de Compostela, where he went on pilgrimage as a young man. When he was dying, he gave it to me. He had never used it, just bought it because the scallop shells reminded him of his pilgrimage. He said that if I was bent on being a scholar, it was the very thing I needed.’

  I could hear his voice telling me the story as I picked it up. It was half full. Making sure the lid was secured, I dropped it into my scrip, where it rang, metal against metal, as it collided with the key. This, above all, was evidence that William had been here.

  The other things on the desk were equally revealing. There were two candles in cheap wooden candlesticks. The candles were of the same size and the same colour of wax as the ones we had seen in his coffer in Hart Hall, where Jordain was forced to strain his eyes by rushlight. There was a half dozen of quills, neatly trimmed. And there was an ample supply of parchment, probably most of the quarter ream which had been purchased from Dafydd Hewlyn. I picked up one sheet to examine it. I had not Dafydd’s expert eye, but it looked the same to me. I folded it and added it to my scrip. I would ask Dafydd to look at it, to be sure.

  This, then, must be the place where William had come to copy the Irish Psalter in private and without anyone’s knowledge. A key to give him access to the old mill. Expensive candles to provide light for the fine work, especially for copying the illuminations. Quills trimmed to the angle he favoured. The highest quality parchment which surely matched what we had found under his mattress. Finally, and irrefutably his, the scallop shell ink well.

  One thing only was missing. Where was the Psalter itself?

  He must have had it here. How he had obtained it was another matter. But where was it now? We had certainly not found it anywhere in his room at Hart Hall. He could not have taken it home, for he had not been there since Christmas, and everything pointed to recent activity here. I also had a strong suspicion that it was not safely lodged in its box in Merton’s book room.

  For a moment I had a horrifying thought. Suppose William had been holding the book when he had been surprised by his murderer, who must surely be some vagrant who wanted this place for himself. Perhaps he had been stabbed and thrown in the river still holding the book. In that case, waterlogged, it would now lie on the bed of the Cherwell, rapidly disintegrating and feeding the fishes. It would mean not only the death of a promising young man, whatever skulduggery he had been engaged in here, but also the loss of one of Merton’s, one of Oxford’s, rarest treasures.

  I did my best to push the thought away, though my inner eye conjured up an image of those illuminated pages waving in the river like water weed, flakes of gold foil spinning in the sunlight down the stream like some iridescent insect, tempting the jaws of a passing trout. Nay, the book must be here somewhere. I had not properly examined the whole room.

  The table was a simple structure, four legs and a top. No drawers. I moved the stool aside and looked under it. There was nowhere there that anything could be hidden. Upside down, the stool revealed nothing but the underside of its seat. I began a careful investigation of the mill machinery. I ran my arm up the chute as far as I could reach, but encountered nothing but a film of old flour, which I dusted off on the hem of my cotte. The mechanism which had once operated the wheel provided no hiding place. I stood in the middle of the floor and turned slowly round. The book could not have been hidden on the upper level, for the ladder was worm-rotted and lying discarded on the floor.

  The only other possible place was a pile of old sacks lying in the corner. I could not believe William would have risked putting the ancient, priceless book anywhere so damaging, but for the sake of thoroughness, I had best look.

  The sacks smelled of mould and mice. And mice had been making good use of them, tearing away pieces to make their nests. Easy enough, for the old sacking disintegrated in my hands as I lifted it to look underneath. There was nothing but mouse droppings. Whoever had cleaned the room had missed this corner. It was a pile of filthy rubbish, and there was no sign of the book there.

  I was still kneeling by the sacks, try
ing to scrub my hands clean on my cotte, with little success, when I thought I heard a rustle in the dead foliage that lay outside beneath the windows. Probably more of the mice, or even a rat, for such might still linger around an old mill even after all the grain was gone. Half rising, I had a sudden sense, a change in the light, a stirring in the air – there was someone there.

  If I had not already been moving, the blow would have cracked my skull. As it was, the right side of my head seemed to explode with pain. I had only a sideways glimpse of my attacker before I fell, with my face in the rotting sacks and the dark closing over me.

  I have no idea how long I lay in darkness. Gradually I became aware of intense pain in my head, and a lesser pain in my stomach. I was half suffocated by the filthy sacks, but it seemed almost too much trouble to lift my face or even turn my head. There was a noise beyond the drumming of pain in my head. At first I could not be sure what it was, but with an immense effort to gather my wits together, I remembered that I was in the derelict mill. I identified the sound as rain beating against the broken shutters and rustling in the thatch of the roof like an army of mice. The occasional groan I took to be the timbers of the old waterwheel straining in the flow of the river and not noises escaping from my own involuntary lips, although when I tried to heave myself up I did groan aloud, and thought the better of trying to move.

  The pain in my stomach worried me. Had I been stabbed, like William? I have little knowledge of these matters, but I had heard it said that sometimes a stabbed man can hardly feel – until it is too late – the thrust of a slender dagger which will let out his life’s blood. I rolled on to my side, which was less sickening than trying to get up, and felt around my stomach, to check whether there was any blood. My hand came away clean, but I had touched something hard. My wits were still moving slowly, but when I felt again, I subsided on to the sacks with a feeble laugh. As I had fallen over, my scrip had swung forward. All this time I had been lying with the sharp edge of a pewter scallop shell pressing into my stomach.