Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

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Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 5

by Gregory, Susanna


  ‘Was the corpse here yesterday?’ snapped Michael impatiently.

  ‘If so, I would have reported it then,’ Browne shot back, then added defensively, ‘Not that I visit every day, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘We need to tug him out. I am not sure how, though – he is some distance from the bank.’

  Bartholomew fashioned a grappling hook by tying one of his surgical implements on to a piece of twine. Then he flung it towards the body, aiming to snag it and draw it across to him. Unfortunately, it was caught on something below the surface, and the makeshift device was not strong enough to let him pull it free.

  ‘You had better wade in after him,’ said Michael. ‘Or we shall be here all day.’

  ‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘My remit is to tell you how he died, not go paddling about in dirty ponds while you stand by and make unhelpful suggestions.’

  ‘I am not going,’ said Cynric firmly, when the monk turned to him. He crossed himself with one hand, while the other gripped a couple of the talismans that hung around his neck. ‘This pool is infested with an evil kind of faerie.’

  ‘Surely, you have a charm to protect you?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘You seem to be wearing at least four, not to mention pilgrim tokens and a holy relic. No one in Cambridge is better protected from wicked spirits than you.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric comfortably. ‘But I am still not going in that pond.’

  ‘Nor am I, lest you think to ask,’ said Browne. ‘It is not my responsibility, either.’

  ‘And I cannot swim,’ added Michael. He grinned rather triumphantly at Bartholomew. ‘So either you must do it, or we shall have to wait until a beadle deigns to arrive.’

  As it was nearing the date when his students would take their final disputations, and he was keen to return to College to make sure they were hard at work, Bartholomew sat down and began to untie his boots. Michael was right: it might be some time before a beadle – one of the army of men he hired to keep unruly scholars under control – put in an appearance, because they were still busy ensuring that no trouble was bubbling after the Convocation.

  ‘It will not take a moment,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Then you can return to terrorising your pupils, and I can continue to soothe ragged tempers over this library. You know what happened the last time our Colleges and hostels took against each other.’

  Bartholomew was unlikely to forget the events of the previous February, when a ruthless killer had fanned the flames of dissent between the University’s warring factions. He stood and put one foot in the water, but it was bone-chillingly cold – far more so than he had expected – and he withdrew it hastily.

  ‘Just jump,’ advised Michael. ‘It will be unpleasant for an instant, but then all you have to do is wade a few steps, grab the corpse and haul it back to us.’

  ‘There is a platform just under the surface,’ supplied Browne, rather more helpfully. ‘Built to allow servants to walk out and catch the fish with nets. You can see it if you look carefully. Use that.’

  Bartholomew saw there was indeed a structure beneath the water. It was made from old planks, and was black with age and slime. He supposed it would normally be exposed, but recent rains meant the water level was higher than usual. He stepped on to it, wincing at the frigid temperature a second time, and was relieved to find it only reached mid-calf. Gingerly, he moved along it, wondering just how old the planks were, and whether they were stable. The thought had no sooner formed in his mind when he felt them move. He froze in alarm.

  ‘Stop,’ said Cynric urgently. ‘Come back, and I will—’

  The rest of his sentence was lost under a tearing groan. Bartholomew flailed his arms in a desperate effort to keep his balance, but the wood crumbled beneath his feet, and into the pond he went. It was so cold after the warmth of the day that he gasped involuntarily, inhaling water that made him choke. He struck out for the bank, but a piece of planking landed on him and forced him beneath the surface. There, looming in the darkness, was a dead face. Startled, he gulped a second time, swallowing yet more water.

  ‘You did not bring the body,’ said Browne, grinning his amusement as the physician scrambled up the bank, dripping and disgusted. ‘You will have to go back for it.’

  ‘I saw it under the water.’ Bartholomew coughed, and Cynric pounded him on the back. ‘Your beadles will have to trawl for it, Brother. I had no idea this pond was so deep.’

  ‘It is deep,’ agreed Browne. ‘The fish would have died years ago, were it not. But the corpse is not under the water, Bartholomew. It has not moved.’

  Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw that Browne was right. ‘But I saw a face,’ he said, wondering whether he had imagined it; the pond was murky after all. ‘It floated past me …’

  ‘There are two corpses,’ cried Cynric, the shrillness of his voice making everyone jump. ‘I told you this place was evil!’

  Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and saw the unmistakable shape of a second body, bobbing a short distance from the first.

  ‘Actually, there are three,’ breathed Michael, gesturing in entirely another direction. ‘Lord save us! It is a veritable graveyard!’

  CHAPTER 2

  It was late afternoon by the time the beadles had completed an initial dredge of the pond. The first body had been snagged on the underwater structure, and it had taken three of them to haul it free; the other corpses had been recovered by dropping hooks into the water. The pond released a foul odour as it was disturbed, and several beadles claimed to feel faint, so Michael sent Cynric to fetch Bartholomew, who had gone home. The physician arrived to find the men sullen and fearful, but was unsympathetic when he learned why.

  ‘The smell is not the Devil’s breath,’ he said firmly, glaring at his book-bearer as he did so – he knew exactly who had put that thought into their minds. ‘It is just stagnant water.’

  ‘We found four bodies in the end,’ said Michael, pointing to a row of shrouded shapes. ‘And a bucketful of bones that could represent yet more unfortunates.’

  Bartholomew inspected them quickly. ‘Chickens and geese, Brother, from the tavern’s table. And one or two cats that must have tried to catch the fish and tumbled in. The sides of the pond are steep, and if the water was low, it might be difficult to climb out again.’

  ‘No, the evil faeries had them,’ countered Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Cats have excellent balance, and do not fall into pools while hunting. And even if they did, they can swim.’

  ‘Normally, I would ask you to examine these bodies – the human ones, I mean – immediately,’ said Michael, ignoring him and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are all tired, so it can wait. My beadles will take them to St Mary the Great, and you can look at them tomorrow, when inconsiderate book-bearers are not making unsettling remarks about demonic spirits and the like.’

  ‘But it is true,’ objected Cynric, stung. ‘I told you this garden had a sinister aura, and the presence of corpses here proves it.’

  ‘I had better do it now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tale is already out that bodies have been found, and people have gathered in the lane outside, clamouring to know names. Apparently, several people have gone missing over the last few weeks, and their loved ones are eager for answers. Perhaps, like Browne, these four had a penchant for Newe Inn’s fish.’

  ‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘One careless poacher might have fallen in, or even two, but not more.’

  Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the first. The body was fresh, and he doubted it had been immersed for more than a day. He inspected it quickly.

  ‘There is no sign of a slit throat. Or any other wound for that matter, although I will look more carefully tomorrow.’

  Michael frowned. ‘A slit throat?’

  ‘Like the beggar, Tulyet’s night-watchman and Adam,’ explained Bartholomew. He shrugged at the monk’s bemused expression. ‘You are right i
n that four people are unlikely to have died of natural causes here, so unless we have two killers on the loose …’

  ‘But Dick said the others were probably executed because they saw smugglers. Smugglers will not be operating in the grounds of Newe Inn, so the two cases cannot possibly be connected.’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He stared at the corpse’s unfamiliar features. Its clothes indicated a man of some substance, because they were of excellent quality and almost new. The same was true of the next victim, who bore an uncanny likeness to the first. Both had deeply ink-stained fingers.

  ‘Have any brothers been reported missing?’ he asked. ‘Clerks, perhaps, or scribes?’

  ‘Yes – and you were there when it happened.’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Philip and John London, who work in the stationer’s shop. Weasenham mentioned they were late for work today.’

  ‘He also said they were members of Batayl,’ said Bartholomew, glancing in its direction. ‘Which lies next door, and whose scholars raised the alarm about a corpse here.’

  ‘Not these corpses, though. They were underwater, and invisible until you stirred them up.’

  ‘Are these the London brothers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I never met them.’

  Michael peered at them. ‘Yes, more is the pity. They have helped Weasenham quietly and efficiently ever since the Death.’

  The plague that had scoured the civilised world, killing entire communities in a matter of days, had been such a terrible experience that people nearly always used it to refer to events in the past – everything was either before the Death or after it. Bartholomew covered the brothers, and removed the blanket that had been placed over the next victim.

  ‘Northwood!’ he exclaimed in horror. He looked up at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘He is the Carmelite who voted in favour of the Common Library – against the wishes of his colleagues. I liked him, Brother. He gave my fellow medici and me some helpful advice about developing our clean-burning lamp fuel.’

  ‘I knew him only by reputation – for his lively mind and interest in alchemy. Who is the last?’

  Bartholomew pulled the cover from the fourth body, and pushed the sodden hair away from its face. It was the one with the arrow in its back. He recoiled with shock a second time.

  ‘It is Vale,’ he said in a voice that was not quite steady. ‘The Gonville Hall physician. No wonder he was not at the Convocation earlier! His colleagues mentioned his absence, if you recall.’

  ‘Vale?’ echoed Michael. ‘But this makes no sense! What do a friar, two scriveners and a medicus have in common?’

  Bartholomew did not know, but the day seemed suddenly colder and darker.

  Dismayed and saddened by what he had seen, Bartholomew was tempted to ignore Michael’s recommendation to leave the examinations until the following morning, and do it straight away. But he had been up most of the previous night with a patient and knew better than to undertake such an important task when his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep. He followed Michael and Cynric through the garden to the small gate that led into Cholles Lane.

  ‘Walkelate and his craftsmen were no help,’ said Michael, once he had reported what little he knew about the victims to the anxious crowd outside, and was walking away. ‘The pond cannot be seen from the house, and neither can the gate. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, despite the fact that they work on that accursed building all the hours God gives.’

  ‘I will ask around,’ offered Cynric. ‘Someone will have noticed something peculiar, because four men do not die with no witnesses.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said the monk fervently. ‘Do you mind starting now?’

  Because it was a pretty evening, the streets were busy, and Michael and Bartholomew met a number of people they knew as they walked to Michaelhouse, some enjoying a relaxing stroll and others going home after work. The physician’s sister and her husband were among the former. They were deep in conversation, and Edith’s worried frown deepened when she saw her brother.

  ‘We were just talking about your grisly discovery at Newe Inn, Matt,’ she said sympathetically. ‘The tale is already all over the town. It must have been horrible for you.’

  ‘Do you know the names of the victims yet?’ Oswald Stanmore was a wealthy cloth merchant, a handsome, grey-haired man with a neat beard and fine clothes.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers.’

  Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Not Northwood! He was a lovely man, and often came to our house to talk about cloth-dyeing. He was interested in such things.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Stanmore, shaken. ‘He liked anything to do with mixing different ingredients together, and recommended several improvements that saved me a lot of money. He was interested in your efforts to create a clean-burning lamp, Matt, and wanted to be part of it.’

  Bartholomew nodded again. ‘Unfortunately, Rougham and Holm will only experiment with other medici, and refused his offer. It was a pity, because I think he would have been useful.’

  ‘He would,’ whispered Cynric to Michael. ‘And they should have accepted his help, because they are making scant progress on their own. Personally, I suspect they will never succeed.’

  ‘I wish you would hurry up with it, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘I should like to be able to work winter nights without straining my eyes. So would many other folk, and I predict your non-flickering lamp will make you very rich, although I know money is not what drives you.’

  Bartholomew did not reply. He was feeling despondent, partly because he hated to admit that several months of experiments had produced nothing worthwhile, but mostly because of what had happened to Vale and Northwood.

  ‘It seems to me that half of Cambridge is busy trying to invent something at the moment,’ said Edith. ‘The medici with clean-burning fuel, Northwood with dyes, the Carmelites with ink, Weasenham with paper-making, to name but a few.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It all began in January, when a deputation of scholars from Oxford came and bragged about some experiments they were conducting. As you can imagine, our Regents hated the prospect of being outshone by the Other Place, so quite a number of them turned inventor.’

  ‘Is that what has prompted this recent spirit of enquiry?’ asked Edith, amused. ‘A desire not to be bested by academic rivals?’

  ‘Partly,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is also about being more attractive to benefactors and patrons. And about drawing the best students. Applications to study here have increased tenfold since some of our Regents have become alchemists.’

  ‘I imagine they have,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘These pupils all hope to be part of these discoveries, so they can claim a slice of the profits when they are sold. But to return to the bodies at Newe Inn, Weasenham told us that one had an arrow in its back, and—’

  ‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Must he gossip about everything? Of course, he probably did not know then that two of his scribes are among the victims.’

  ‘That will make three of his scriveners dead in a single day,’ said Edith. ‘Poor Ruth! She was distressed about Adam, but she will be heartbroken over the London brothers. She was fond of them, because her husband tended to curtail his rumour-mongering when they were to hand.’

  ‘So once again our town is plagued by killers,’ said Stanmore bleakly, placing a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘I cannot imagine what it is about Cambridge that attracts them.’

  ‘Matt has not inspected the bodies yet,’ warned Michael. ‘And until he does, we cannot say that murder—’

  ‘Of course they were murdered,’ interrupted Stanmore scornfully. ‘A man cannot shoot himself in the back with an arrow. Nor do four men choose the same spot in which to dispatch themselves, while if it was an accident, you would have seen it straight away. They were unlawfully slain all right. Poor Northwood! And poor John and Philip London, too!’

  ‘What about poor Vale?’ asked Micha
el.

  It was Edith who answered. ‘I shall pray for his soul, but I disliked him. He pestered my seamstresses relentlessly, and I had to order him to stay away from them in the end.’

  ‘He was sly, as well as a lecher,’ added Stanmore. ‘He tried to cheat me when I sold him some cloth, and I was incensed that he should consider me a fool.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding,’ said Bartholomew, troubled by the remarks. ‘I am sure he would not have—’

  ‘Dear Matt,’ said Edith fondly, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘Always thinking well of even the most brazen of villains.’

  ‘Incidentally, I am pleased to hear that the Common Library is almost ready,’ said Stanmore. ‘I have it in mind to donate my collection of breviaries to the venture.’

  ‘But you have always said those would come to Michaelhouse,’ cried Michael in dismay.

  ‘I have changed my mind. Chancellor Tynkell has promised twice as many masses for my soul if I give them to him instead. It—’

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Bartholomew suddenly, pointing to where a man and a woman were walking together. He had seen them before, and there was something about the lady that reminded him of Matilde, the love of his life who had disappeared from Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. That had been three years ago, almost to the day, and he had spent many months searching for her, but had finally resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. That did not mean he never thought about her, though, and the woman who walked along Milne Street bore an uncanny resemblance.

  ‘Sir Eustace Dunning and his younger daughter Julitta,’ replied Stanmore. ‘He is an influential member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and thus a powerful voice in town affairs. You should know him, Matt – he was the one who gave Newe Inn to your University.’

  ‘Julitta,’ repeated Bartholomew, a little dreamily.

  ‘Sister to Weasenham’s wife Ruth,’ Stanmore went on. ‘You can see the likeness, with their fair skin and pretty eyes. And in their intelligence, too.’

  ‘Julitta is betrothed to Surgeon Holm,’ added Edith. ‘Although I cannot say I would like to marry a surgeon. They probably bring home some shocking stains.’

 

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