He was about to enter, when voices farther up the lane made him glance around – Prior Etone was leading his friars home after a lengthy post-Convocation gripe with the Dominicans. The Carmelites were a powerful force in Cambridge, with about fifty brothers and an army of laymen and servants. Most were regarding Bartholomew rather coolly.
‘You were wrong to vote for that library, Matthew,’ called Etone. ‘It is not a good idea to have one of those in our studium generale.’
‘Especially as it is to be housed in Newe Inn,’ added the skeletal Riborowe. ‘That building was promised to us, and you had no right to support a scheme that saw us dispossessed.’
‘I told him all that before the Convocation,’ Michael called back before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he did not listen – thinking about urine and leeches, probably.’
At that moment, a bell chimed inside the convent to tell the friars that a light meal was available in the refectory, and most of them trooped off to enjoy it, but Prior Etone crossed the lane to continue berating Bartholomew. He was accompanied by Riborowe and a tiny, sparrow-like man named Jorz, with a nose like a stubby beak.
‘Wait, Matt,’ ordered Michael, as Bartholomew edged towards Newe Inn’s door, unwilling to be rebuked yet again for doing what he had felt was right. ‘The Carmelites are still seriously piqued over the Common Library, and a few moments smoothing ruffled feathers will not go amiss.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘You are not the one about to be scolded like an errant schoolboy.’
‘That stupid grace passed by three votes,’ said Riborowe, his thin face flushed with irritation. ‘Three! If you and one other Regent had shown a shred of decency, it would have been defeated.’
‘Bartholomew is not the only one who betrayed us,’ chirped Jorz. ‘Others voted contrary to orders, too. They include Vale of Gonville Hall; the London brothers from the stationer’s shop; Sawtre and Walkelate from King’s Hall; and, I am ashamed to say, Northwood from our own Order. All are traitorous wretches who should be made to pay.’
‘They should,’ agreed Riborowe. ‘But most will have realised the folly of their ways by now, so you must call another Convocation, Brother. I imagine the result will be very different next time. How about July? That is a lovely month for making decisions.’
Bartholomew regarded him coolly. ‘Most hostels close during July. Scholars from the Colleges and the religious Orders will still be here, but the others will have gone home.’
‘Will they really?’ asked Riborowe, feigning surprise. ‘What a pity that their voices will not be heard, then. Still, I suppose that is democracy for you.’
‘All our members should have equal access to books,’ argued Bartholomew, becoming exasperated. ‘And as a University, we have a moral obligation to see that they do.’
‘These are dangerous principles, Matthew,’ warned Etone. ‘I cannot say I approve.’
‘They are not dangerous principles,’ came a voice from behind them. Sawtre, the gentle philosopher from King’s Hall, had overheard the remark as he was passing, and had stopped to join the debate. He was a clever, likeable man with a shiny bald head. ‘They are enlightened principles.’
‘Enlightened is another word for heretical,’ countered Riborowe. ‘And your opinion counts for nothing anyway, because you are another dissenter.’
Sawtre smiled with kindly patience, unruffled by the friar’s hostility. ‘And how does having a mind of my own negate my opinion, exactly?’
Riborowe knew he was unlikely to win a battle of logic with a scholar of Sawtre’s standing, so he continued to rail at Bartholomew instead. ‘I thought you would have learned your lesson about unorthodoxy by now. It is said in the town that you are a warlock.’
Bartholomew winced. He did not need reminding that his medical successes had resulted in a tale that said a pact with the Devil was responsible. His patients – mostly the town’s poor – did not care as long as he made them better, but he disliked the reputation he had acquired. It was especially galling as he had been to some trouble to avoid controversy over the last few years, keeping his ideas and theories to himself, and only practising surgery as a last resort.
‘He is not a warlock,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘And as most of you White Friars are his patients, I am astonished to hear such remarks from your lips.’
‘You are right,’ said Prior Etone, after a brief moment of contemplation. ‘Matthew is the only medicus who brings relief to my chilblains. Where would I be if he took umbrage and declined to tend me? So I hereby retract my objection to his foolish opinions about libraries.’
‘There are other medici in Cambridge,’ said Riborowe sullenly. ‘And our Order should not use one who communes with the Devil, anyway. No matter how good he is with chilblains.’
‘Perhaps not, but I would not recommend employing Vale in his place,’ said Jorz fervently. ‘He is more interested in inventing a universal cure-all than in treating real patients. Did I tell you that I showed him my haemorrhoids, and he laughed?’
‘Who first mooted the idea of having a Common Library?’ asked Etone, in the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘I cannot imagine Dunning coming up with it on his own.’
‘It was Chancellor Tynkell,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He said he wanted to do something “worthwhile” before he retires from office next year.’
‘Then you must bear some responsibility for the situation, Brother,’ said Riborowe nastily. ‘Of course Tynkell will be keen to be remembered as something other than your puppet!’
‘If he were my puppet, we would not be having this discussion,’ growled Michael, ‘because a grace to found a Common Library would never have been proposed in the first place. Tynkell arranged the whole thing slyly, without my knowledge. I was outraged when I found out that he had been making arrangements behind my back.’
‘I am sure you did your best to thwart it,’ said Etone kindly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Jorz. ‘It is not your fault that you were betrayed by your closest friend and other vipers like him. Speaking of vipers, there seems to be a profusion of them this year. We killed three in our grounds only yesterday.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. ‘Why? They are harmless if left alone.’
Jorz regarded him askance, while Riborowe crossed himself. ‘You defend serpents? The beasts whose forked tongues caused our expulsion from the Garden of Eden? That is heresy!’
Sawtre smiled rather patronisingly. ‘You have overlooked the concept of free will, Jorz. Shall we debate the matter? I happen to be free for the next five or six hours and—’
‘We should go home, or there will be nothing left to eat,’ snapped Jorz, turning abruptly and walking away before the philosopher, who was known to be wordy, could claim the rest of his day. Riborowe followed, although not before treating Bartholomew to a final glower.
‘My apologies,’ said Etone with a pained smile. ‘They have been trying to invent a fast-drying ink, and it is weariness that renders them testy. They are usually perfectly amiable.’
‘You see, Matt?’ asked Michael, when Etone and Sawtre had gone. ‘Your silly library is causing all manner of dissent among our members. But we had better visit this corpse before any more of the day is lost.’
Bartholomew had not been inside Newe Inn since it had ceased to be a tavern, and looked around with interest as he entered. It was cool, dark and smaller than might have been expected from the street, because, in typical Norman fashion, its walls were hugely thick. It was simple in design: the ground floor comprised a large, low-ceilinged basement that would be used for storage, while the upper floor had two chambers where the precious books would be kept.
As the storeroom was deserted, Michael aimed for the stairs, to look for someone who could tell them why they had been summoned. Cynric was at his heels, while Bartholomew lagged behind, reluctantly acknowledging to himself that perhaps Newe Inn was unsuitable for a library – it was gloomy, cool eve
n on a warm summer day, and definitely damp.
‘Personally, I suspect Dunning is glad to be rid of this place,’ muttered Cynric disparagingly. ‘Donating it to the University brings a princely number of masses for his soul when he is dead and a free tomb in St Mary the Great. He has done well out of the bargain.’
They arrived at the upper chambers to find them in a flurry of activity. Walkelate could have shoved up a few shelves and been done with it, but he had taken his assignment seriously, and the result was a masterpiece. The walls were panelled in light beech, and the bookcases were of different heights and depths to accommodate variation in the size of the tomes they would hold. They were all exquisitely carved with classical and biblical images.
When he saw he had visitors, the architect came to greet them.
‘Welcome,’ he cried jovially. ‘I know we are all sawdust and muddle at the moment, but the chaos is superficial. The main work is finished, and it is just details now. We shall certainly be ready by Corpus Christi.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘It is a—’
‘But you have not been here before,’ interrupted Walkelate, looking at Bartholomew and beaming widely at the prospect of a new admirer. ‘Allow me to show you around.’
‘Not now,’ said Michael quickly. ‘We were told there is a corpse to inspect.’
‘A corpse?’ echoed Walkelate, startled. ‘There is no cadaver here, I assure you!’ He turned eagerly back to Bartholomew. ‘Like all decent libraries, ours will be in two sections. The room in which we are standing holds the libri distribuendi – duplicates, cheaper volumes and exemplars. These may be lent to scholars, to take home.’
‘And the libri concatenati?’ asked Bartholomew.
Walkelate led the way to the adjoining chamber. It was larger than the first, and finer, with specially designed carrels and lecterns for reading. ‘As you know, the libri concatenati are expensive or popular books. They will be chained to the walls or to lecterns, and will not be removed from the building.’
‘Our library will be magnificent,’ said Bartholomew warmly, his reservations about the building’s suitability quite vanished. He pointed to a huge rough chest in the middle of the room, which stood in a sea of wood shavings. ‘Although I assume that will not be staying?’
‘That is a cista exemplarium – a box for storing spare exemplars – and will eventually live in the basement. However, for now, it provides a convenient work table.’
To prove his point, he sat next to it. On the cista was a hefty bust of Aristotle, meticulously carved in oak, which he picked up and began to buff lovingly.
‘This will be mounted atop the first bookcase our scholars will see upon entering,’ he explained. ‘To welcome them to this sacred hall of learning.’
‘I am surprised you accepted Dunning’s invitation to design this place,’ remarked Michael. ‘Your College is violently opposed to the scheme, and King’s Hall has always been rather keen on unity.’
‘I know,’ said Walkelate with a sigh. ‘They remind me of my dissension at every meal.’
‘Then why did you do it?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. His own colleagues were still peeved with him for the way he had voted, and he could not imagine what it would be like for Walkelate, who had not only supported the venture, but was its architect, too.
‘Because I firmly believe that they will appreciate its benefits in time,’ replied Walkelate. ‘And that they will come to love it. Besides, this project represented a challenge, and I like my skills to be tested.’
‘You have worked very hard,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, a grand opening during Corpus Christi will be a red rag to a bull. A discreet, quiet ceremony the week after would be far more suitable. I do not suppose you might consider …’
‘I cannot delay the work to suit you, Brother,’ said Walkelate reproachfully. ‘Dunning has offered the craftsmen a substantial bonus if they finish on time, and it would be cruel to deprive them of such a prize after all their labours.’
He smiled as two men walked into the room, laden down with wood and buckets of nails. The first man, who was enormous, carried the bulk of the supplies. He looked like a wrestler, and his thick yellow hair was tied in a tail at the back of his head. The second was smaller, with sad eyes and a wart on the side of his nose. Both looked exhausted, and when they deposited their materials on the cista, they heaved weary sighs.
‘This is Kente,’ said Walkelate, indicating the smaller of the pair. ‘He is responsible for all the carving, while Frevill here built the shelves.’
‘Another week,’ said Kente, bending slowly to pick up a hammer. ‘Then we shall be finished, and I will sleep for a month. I cannot recall ever working so hard!’
‘Nor I,’ growled Frevill. ‘But the bonus will be worth the pre-dawn starts and the late finishes. My father says it will eliminate all the debt our family has incurred this winter.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Dunning would be able to pay what he had promised, because it was clear that the artisans had given everything they had to meet his deadline.
He was about to compliment Kente and Frevill on their achievement when there was another clatter of footsteps on the stairs. A man stood in the doorway, hands on hips, as he regarded Michael with considerable anger.
‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded in a powerful West Country burr. He was short, although he carried himself as though he were taller, and had straight, grey-brown hair. His name was Robert Browne, and he was a teacher at Batayl Hostel. Bartholomew braced himself for some unpleasantness – Browne was not one of the University’s more congenial members.
Michael regarded Browne in surprise. ‘Why should I not be here?’
‘Because your duties lie in Newe Inn’s garden,’ snarled Browne. ‘Not in its damned library.’
‘The corpse,’ surmised Michael. ‘So there is one after all. However, your Principal said there was no immediate hurry, and—’
‘Coslaye is not the one obliged to loiter next to it until the Senior Proctor deigns to appear,’ snapped Browne angrily. ‘And he may not consider murder urgent, but I do.’
‘Murder?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘How do you—’
‘If you can bear to bring an end to your sightseeing,’ replied Browne waspishly, ‘you may come and see for yourself.’
It had been several years since anyone had tended Newe Inn’s grounds and they screamed of neglect and decay. Some weeds were taller than Bartholomew, who was not a short man, while nettles choked what had once been vegetable beds, and the grass was thigh-high. The tavern must have been leased to a long succession of negligent landlords, and he wondered whether Cynric was right to say that Dunning was glad to be rid of the responsibility it would pose.
‘Will anything be done to tame this wilderness before the library opens?’ he asked, trying to fight his way free of a bramble with thorns like talons. It retaliated by ripping his shirt. ‘It is downright dangerous!’
‘It is,’ agreed Cynric, kicking viciously at a huge thistle.
‘Dunning declined to renovate the house and clear the garden,’ explained Michael, following Browne along a barely discernible path, which ran by the side of the teetering wall that divided Newe Inn from neighbouring Batayl. ‘So Tynkell decided to leave the grounds until next year. Doubtless he will use them to instigate some other foolish plan to see himself immortalised.’
Eventually, they arrived at a large pond where past owners had bred carp and trout. It reeked, although the stench was partly masked by a fragrantly scented patch of lily of the valley to one side, a bright jewel of beauty in a place that was otherwise unsightly. Floating in the middle of the pond, face-down and with an arrow protruding from its back, was the body.
‘Now can you see why I had the audacity to suggest murder?’ asked Browne archly. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. He had never liked the physician, preferring staid traditionalists to those who favoured new ideas. ‘You do not need
a Corpse Examiner to tell you that he did not do that to himself.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Michael.
‘His face is in the water and his clothes are black with mud,’ replied Browne tartly. ‘So how am I supposed to know that? However, I can tell you that he is not supposed to be here.’
‘Obviously,’ muttered Cynric. ‘Cadavers bobbing about in fish ponds is hardly right.’
Browne’s lips compressed into a thin line. ‘I meant that no one is supposed to frequent these grounds. They are University property and therefore private.’
Michael regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Yes, they are, which means you should not have been here, either, yet you were the one to raise the alarm. What were you doing?’
Browne looked decidedly furtive. ‘I occasionally slip over the wall to ensure all is well. It is unwise to leave a place unattended too long, and I take my neighbourly responsibilities seriously.’
‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael coolly. ‘However, it does not explain why you were here, at this pond. It is far beyond benefiting from philanthropic inspections.’
Browne was defiant. ‘Times are hard, especially for a poor foundation like ours, and there are fish in this pool. You, from rich old Michaelhouse, will not know what it is like to be hungry.’
Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric said nothing, but the truth was that their College was not wealthy at all, and they understood all too well what it was like to exist on meagre rations. They possessed several fine buildings, along with land that kept them supplied with vegetables, but their roofs leaked, they were crippled with debt, and a fire had not burned in the hearth for weeks. Not even a windfall resulting from a recent journey to York had helped them for long.
‘So you are a poacher,’ surmised Michael, fixing Browne with an icy glare. ‘How often do you raid University property, exactly?’
‘Bagging the occasional carp hardly makes me a poacher,’ objected Browne indignantly, although Bartholomew was sure the law would not agree.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 4