Dunning was a handsome man in his fifties, whose thick grey hair and matching beard made him appear venerable, like a modern-day Plato. He had fought in the Scottish wars, where his courage had earned him his spurs, and he had inherited a sizeable fortune from his father.
‘I am sorry my benefaction continues to cause strife, Brother,’ he said, as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘It was intended to please the University, not be a source of discord.’
Julitta laughed, a pleasant sound that reminded Bartholomew even more acutely of Matilde. His stomach lurched, and he could not stop staring at her. She had long, silky brown hair that she wore in a plait, and her slender figure was accentuated by the elegant cut of her kirtle. But it was her face that was her most striking feature. It was clear and sweet, and with the exception of Matilde, he could not ever recall seeing anyone so lovely.
‘What did you expect?’ she asked, eyes dancing. ‘Cambridge’s academics are clever men with strong opinions. I imagine any proposal will meet with opposition, no matter how kindly meant.’
‘True,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘Of course, it is a pity the Carmelites and Batayl feel they have a right to Newe Inn. It would have been better had you donated a different building to the venture, and I understand you have plenty. Perhaps you will give us another.’
It was Dunning’s turn to laugh. ‘You scholars are never satisfied!’
‘On the contrary, we are very grateful,’ said Michael, although he failed to sound sincere. ‘But my point was that you had already promised—’
‘I promised nothing,’ interrupted Dunning wearily. ‘The White Friars and Batayl have been clamouring at me for months to give them Newe Inn, and in an effort to shut them up, I said I would consider their applications. Consider, not agree to them. And that is all.’
‘I suspect Principal Coslaye and Prior Etone embellished the tale because they want my father to withdraw his offer to establish a library,’ explained Julitta. ‘They are not naturally sly, but the issue seems to have made them extraordinarily excitable.’
‘We have just visited it,’ said Dunning with a sudden smile. ‘I go there as often as possible, to monitor progress. Walkelate is an impressive fellow; he vowed it would be ready by Corpus Christi, and I am beginning to think he will succeed.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. He did not add ‘more is the pity’, but it was evident in his tone.
‘Our scheme is a good one, Brother,’ insisted Dunning, hearing the censure. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell assures me that it will benefit all concerned, even those who object now. A lack of books prevents many scholars from achieving all they might. A library will help them, and earn your studium generale the respect and fame it deserves.’
‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘But Tynkell’s motives for encouraging this scheme are not altruistic. He wants to be remembered after he retires next year.’
‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Julitta. ‘I understand he has done very little else during his tenure.’
‘The library will be a credit to you, Sir Eustace,’ said Bartholomew, finding his voice at last. ‘In fact, Kente has already made you immortal by carving your face on one of the lecterns.’
‘You noticed, did you?’ Dunning was pleased. ‘There is one of Julitta, too, and of Ruth, my other daughter.’
‘Kente has immortalised Tynkell, too,’ said Michael sullenly. ‘As Eden’s serpent.’
‘Nonsense, Brother!’ exclaimed Julitta, laughing again. ‘What an imagination you have!’
Dunning changed the subject by turning to Bartholomew and asking conversationally, ‘Surgeon Holm, who is soon to be my son-in-law, told me last night that you drilled a large hole in Coslaye’s skull after it was crushed by a flying book at the Convocation. Is it true?’
Bartholomew found himself strangely reluctant to have Julitta think badly of him by admitting that he regularly trespassed on barber-surgeon territory, especially as she was betrothed to one of them. ‘Well,’ he hedged awkwardly. ‘It was …’
‘He also said that Coslaye would have died had you not done so,’ added Julitta. ‘I think you were extremely brave to have undertaken such a difficult procedure. Brave and noble.’
‘You do?’ asked Bartholomew, taken off guard. He was unused to praise for his surgical skills.
Julitta nodded. ‘He said that he would not have dared do it, and was astonished that you did.’
Bartholomew made no reply, but was dismayed to hear that a tried and tested technique like trephining was beyond the talents of the town’s new surgeon. In fact, he recalled being unimpressed with Holm’s ‘help’ during the entire procedure, and it added to his growing suspicion that the man was not as proficient as he would have everyone believe.
‘Perhaps you should not have bothered,’ said Dunning tartly, ‘given that Coslaye recovered to spread lies about the promises I am alleged to have made.’
‘Really, Father!’ admonished Julitta. ‘That is not a nice thing to say, and Coslaye has his virtues. He is said to be an excellent teacher.’
‘You are quite right, my dear,’ said Dunning with a sigh. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. We had better go home before weariness leads me to say something else I do not mean.’
They moved away. Bartholomew watched them go, and might have stared at Julitta until she was out of sight, had Michael not prodded him, bringing him to his senses.
The two scholars resumed their journey, but had not gone far before their attention was caught by an altercation between four men. Browne was one of them, and Principal Coslaye another. Coslaye was a large man with rough, soldierly features and a notoriously hot temper, and he was shouting at the top of his voice. The objects of his ire were Riborowe and Jorz from the Carmelite Priory, and there was a lot of finger-wagging involved.
Bartholomew skirted to one side, loath to become involved in any debate that involved the waving of digits; in his experience men who employed such gestures were invariably bigots and closed to reason. However, the Senior Proctor could not walk past a quarrel that looked set to become violent, and when Coslaye jabbed Riborowe hard enough to make the skinny friar stagger, Michael stepped forward to intervene.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, interposing his considerable bulk between them.
‘There is a rumour that the University is going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites,’ explained Browne when his Principal was too enraged to speak. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell said we could have first refusal on any sale of land.’
Riborowe sneered at him. ‘If you took Tynkell’s word for anything, you are a fool. He will say anything for a quiet life, and is always reneging on agreements.’
‘Tynkell would have pledged no such thing,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He knows better than to annoy me further with anything concerning the Common Library.’
That was certainly true, thought Bartholomew: Tynkell had been wholly unprepared for the extent of Michael’s wrath when the monk had learned that the Chancellor had been negotiating with wealthy benefactors behind his back. Some very harsh words had been aimed in his direction, and Tynkell had been desperate to make amends ever since.
‘You do not need more land,’ snarled Coslaye, ignoring him and addressing the Carmelites. ‘You have lots already. But we do not, and if you were good Christians, you would let us have it.’
‘Please, gentlemen,’ began Michael. ‘This is hardly the—’
‘How will you pay for it?’ sneered Jorz. ‘You are paupers. However, we White Friars have the money to buy any land we choose.’
‘We can find funds,’ shouted Coslaye, incensed. ‘We have generous friends who will—’
‘Enough!’ roared Michael. He lowered his voice when both the Carmelites and the Batayl men regarded him in astonishment. ‘People are staring at you, laughing at your unedifying behaviour.’
‘I do not care.’ Coslaye’s face was mottled, and Bartholomew hoped rage would not induce a seiz
ure. ‘Besides, the White Friars started it.’
Michael scowled at each of the four in turn. ‘Bring your grievances to me at St Mary the Great tomorrow, and we shall attempt to resolve the matter amicably.’ He raised a plump hand when all four began to object. ‘Not another word, or I shall fine all for breaching the peace.’
‘Who told you that the University was going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew of the Batayl men in the resentful silence that followed. ‘Because Michael is right: Tynkell would never have made such an offer.’
‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Browne, regarding him with dislike. ‘No one invited you to join this discussion.’
‘There is no need to be rude,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘I owe Bartholomew my life, in case you do not recall. He even waived his fee for the help he gave me, on account of our poverty.’
‘Yes, but the Devil probably paid him in kind,’ said Riborowe slyly. ‘I have heard that Satan is partial to poring over exposed brains. It amuses him.’
‘And how do you come to be party to Satan’s preferences, pray?’ asked Michael archly. He turned to Browne while the Carmelite was still floundering about for a suitable reply. ‘Matt posed a good question. Who told you this tale?’
‘The stationer,’ replied Browne. ‘Not that it is—’
‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘His lying tongue will see our town in flames yet. But we shall discuss this tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.’
Riborowe opened his mouth to object to the curt dismissal, but Jorz grabbed his arm and pulled him away, sensing it was unwise to irritate the Senior Proctor further.
‘The experiment we are running with the ink should be finished by now, Riborowe,’ he muttered. ‘Let us return to the scriptorium and see the results.’
‘I am complaining to the Bishop about you, Brother,’ called Riborowe threateningly over his shoulder, struggling to free himself from Jorz’s grip. ‘You run the University like a tyrant.’
‘Try it,’ shouted Coslaye challengingly. ‘It will do you no good. He is the Bishop’s spy, and he has accrued his power with de Lisle’s approval and connivance.’
Bartholomew suspected that was true: Michael could not have reached such dizzying heights without the backing of some extremely influential supporters. ‘How are you feeling, Coslaye?’ he asked, eager to change the subject to one that was less contentious; Michael was looking angry. ‘Any headaches?’
Coslaye sniffed. ‘Yes, a great big one. It is called the Carmelites!’
‘We should have asked whether they have noticed any suspicious behaviour around Newe Inn’s pond recently,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone again. ‘The Carmelites and Batayl Hostel are among its nearest neighbours, after all.’
‘I considered it, but tempers were running too high – both sides might have invented stories just to see the other discredited. I shall quiz them tomorrow, when they are calmer. But we had better speak to Weasenham about gossip that disturbs the peace. Will you come with me?’
‘What, now?’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It is getting late and I am tired.’
‘Yes, now,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Who knows what damage the man might do if we delay?’
On warm summer evenings, the University stationer could usually be found sitting on the bench outside his shop, enjoying the fading daylight and devising salacious and invariably fictitious tales about passers-by. He was there that night, Ruth on one side, and Bonabes on the other. He was uncharacteristically subdued, though, while Bonabes was pale and Ruth had been crying.
‘Is it true?’ asked the Exemplarius, coming quickly to his feet as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘You found Philip and John London in Newe Inn’s pond?’
Michael nodded. ‘News travels fast, it seems.’
‘We heard it from one of your beadles,’ explained Weasenham. ‘It is a wretched shame, especially after poor Adam. I know scribes are ten a penny in Cambridge, where every other man you meet can write, and I shall have no trouble finding replacements. But I liked Adam and the London brothers.’
‘We shall all miss them,’ added Ruth in a small voice. ‘Philip and John were so …’ She trailed off, unable to speak.
‘Calm,’ supplied Bonabes. ‘When business was frantic, with everyone screaming at us for completed exemplars, they soothed hot tempers with quiet words.’ He shot Weasenham a pointed glance. ‘And they were always quick to point out the undesirability of gossip.’
‘They were sanctimonious in that respect,’ nodded Weasenham. ‘And I am not a gossip. I just like to share what I know with other people.’
‘You gossiped to Browne about the Carmelites buying land from the University,’ said Michael.
‘I never did,’ declared Weasenham, although his eyes were furtive, while Ruth and Bonabes exchanged a pained glance that made it clear the stationer was lying.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Michael was exasperated and angry. ‘You know how irate our scholars get over anything to do with the Common Library.’
‘That is hardly my fault,’ said Weasenham defensively. ‘And I had the tale on good authority, anyway – Tynkell came to my shop this morning, and I heard him tell Sawtre that Newe Inn’s garden will be worth a lot of money one day, because it is strategically sited near the town centre.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘That is hardly the same as Tynkell saying he will sell it to the Carmelites.’
‘Of course he will sell it to the Carmelites,’ said Weasenham irritably. ‘They want it, and will pay above the odds to get it. Of course the University will trade with them. It is a matter of logic.’
‘It is an erroneous assumption that caused a quarrel,’ said Michael sternly.
Weasenham’s eyes brightened. ‘Really? Was there any violence? But of course there was, and I am not surprised. The Batayl men are fierce and aggressive, while that Browne is a nasty—’
‘There was no violence,’ interrupted Bartholomew hastily, appalled by the way Michael’s words were being twisted.
Ruth took Weasenham’s hand. ‘Please, husband. The Carmelites are good men. They do not deserve to be set at odds with Batayl.’
‘They are good men,’ admitted Weasenham. ‘Although I cannot say I like Riborowe and Jorz. Whenever they come to my shop, I am always under the impression that they are spying.’
‘Spying?’ asked Michael warily. ‘On what?’
‘On our paper-making experiments,’ explained Bonabes. ‘They run a scriptorium, so any advances in the manufacture of writing materials is of interest to them.’
‘Of course, spying will do them no good now the London brothers have gone,’ said Weasenham gloomily. ‘They were the ones who enjoyed meddling with dangerous substances, and the rest of us do not really know what we are doing. Perhaps we had better give up now that they are no longer here to guide us.’
‘No,’ said Bonabes. There was a catch in his voice. ‘They worked hard on this, and succeeding meant a lot to them. So I shall continue their endeavours, in my own time, if necessary. And when I learn how to do it, I shall name the paper-making process after them.’
Weasenham’s sly features softened. ‘There is no need to use your own time,’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. ‘You are right: they did work hard to succeed, and it would be a pity to let their labours go to waste. We shall all help you finish what they started.’
Bonabes turned away at his master’s unexpected and uncharacteristic kindness, and Ruth began to cry again. Bartholomew and Michael left Weasenham trying ineptly to comfort them.
They had not taken many steps towards Michaelhouse when they were intercepted by Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, who had come to say that a quarrel had broken out between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel, and the Senior Proctor’s presence was needed to soothe the situation.
‘They are arguing over the library,’ Meadowman explained, rolling his eyes. ‘Again. Apparently, M
aster Heltisle made some remark about the grace being passed by ignorant ruffians, and Essex took exception. I wish the Chancellor had never had the stupid idea in the first place.’
‘You are not alone,’ muttered Michael, as they hurried away together.
When they had gone, Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go home, despite his weariness. He was unsettled by the events of the day, and suspected he would not sleep if he went to bed anyway. Besides, he felt a certain obligation to tell his medical colleagues in person that Vale was dead, so he began to walk towards Bridge Street, to the home of John Meryfeld, which had become the meeting place of the Cambridge medici in their quest for steady-burning lamp fuel. They had planned to resume their experiments that evening, and Bartholomew had been sorry that his duties as Corpse Examiner had prevented him from joining them.
He made his way past the jumble of alleys known as the Old Jewry, where Matilde had lived, and entered Bridge Street. A breeze was blowing from the east, carrying with it the scent of the Fens – stagnant water, rotting vegetation and wet earth. It was a smell he had known since childhood, and one he found curiously comforting and familiar. Then there was a breath of sweetness from some honeysuckle, followed by a rather unpleasant waft from a latrine that needed emptying.
He arrived at Meryfeld’s house and knocked on the door, hoping it was not too late and his colleagues would still be there. Since beginning their quest the previous winter, the physicians had met at least once a week, and he had come to enjoy the sessions, despite their lack of progress. They were opinionated and dogmatic, and Bartholomew would never share his more novel theories with them, but he had come to accept their idiosyncrasies – and they his – and they had all gradually adopted attitudes of comradely tolerance.
Meryfeld’s plump face broke into a happy grin of welcome when he opened his door. He was always smiling, and had a habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke. He was not the cleanest of men, and his affable, pleasant manner concealed an intensely acquisitive core, but Bartholomew liked him anyway.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 6