‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, unconvinced. He changed the subject. ‘I had a letter from my Bishop today, commenting on the ransoms that were demanded by our King for the French prisoners who were taken at Poitiers. Some have still not been paid.’
‘That is because they were so high,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘The one put on King Jean was at least twice France’s gross annual income. Moreover, the peasants resent being obliged to pay for the release of nobles who fail to protect them from English marauders, and the whole country is on the verge of a serious uprising.’
‘And all over a crown,’ sighed Michael. ‘I have no great love for the French, but I would not have wished this on them.’
Attendance at meals in Michaelhouse was obligatory, so after the morning mass – over in record time because William was officiating and he took pride in the speed at which he could gabble the sacred words – Langelee led the procession home. The scholars milled around in the yard, enjoying the early morning sunshine, until the bell sounded to announce that breakfast was ready. Then there was a concerted dash for the door. Michael was one of the first to thunder up the staircase to where the victuals were waiting, with Suttone and William not far behind: all three had healthy appetites.
‘I do not know why they are always so keen to be first,’ remarked Bartholomew to Clippesby. His stomach was still unsettled, and the thought of food was unappealing. ‘No one can start before the Master has said grace, and he does not do that until we are all standing in our places.’
Clippesby smiled. ‘But there is nothing to stop them from grabbing bread from the baskets while the rest of us are still climbing the stairs. Have you never noticed the crumbs?’
It had been so long since Bartholomew had arrived at a meal before the others that he had forgotten his more voracious colleagues’ penchant for the common victuals.
‘I hope that is not a rat,’ he said, looking at the whiskery nose that poked from the Dominican’s habit. ‘I will overlook frogs, snakes, rabbits, birds, pigs and even slugs. But not rats.’
‘What is wrong with rats?’ asked Clippesby, offended. ‘They mean us no harm.’
‘On the contrary – they invade granaries and were responsible for some of last winter’s starvation. Please do not bring it into the College again. It is hardly hygienic.’
‘But this one has something to report,’ objected Clippesby. ‘She knows a little about the four scholars who died in Newe Inn.’
The Dominican liked to roam the town after dark, communing with his furred and feathered friends. It meant he often witnessed dubious human behaviour, and had helped Michael’s enquiries several times in the past. Unfortunately, his unique way of reporting what he had learned made it difficult to separate fact from fiction.
‘She says they often met in Cholles Lane after dark,’ he went on. ‘Then they all slipped inside Newe Inn’s grounds together. But there were usually others with them.’
‘Who?’
‘She could not tell, because they were all cloaked and hooded. She cannot even say if they were men or women. She knows they took care to be quiet, though, and never let anyone see them.’
Cloaked and hooded, thought Bartholomew. Could they have included the three men who had attacked him the previous night? But virtually everyone in Cambridge possessed a cloak with a hood, and drawing conclusions from such attire was foolish and likely to be misleading.
‘I do not suppose she knows what these people did in Newe Inn, did she?’ he asked, although not with much hope. While Clippesby witnessed all manner of bizarre and inexplicable happenings, he was rarely moved to investigate them further. On the whole, Bartholomew was glad, because it might have been dangerous, and he was protective of the eccentric Dominican.
‘No. But it took them some time – they were gone for at least an hour. Sometimes longer.’
‘Were they in Newe Inn’s garden or in the house – the Common Library?’
Clippesby shrugged. ‘The rat cannot answer that, Matthew. All she saw was people entering the property via that little gate in the wall. She watched them gather on Tuesday night, in fact – Northwood, the Londons, Vale and one or two others. Incidentally, she has been watching Surgeon Holm, too. He has a lover, who visits him most evenings.’
‘Yes – Julitta Dunning. They are betrothed.’
‘They are betrothed,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But Julitta’s father would never allow his daughter to entertain him before they are married. Holm’s fancy is someone else.’
‘I do not want to know,’ said Bartholomew, holding up his hand. He had never liked gossip.
‘As you wish. But the rat will tell you, should you change your mind. She would like someone to warn Julitta, you see – to tell her that Holm will bring her pain if the marriage goes ahead. And I agree. As a priest, I could never sanction a union that will lead to such inevitable misery.’
As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew set his students an exercise to keep them busy while he went to St Mary the Great. He did not feel like examining bodies, and was developing a headache to go with his roiling stomach, so he only half listened to Michael talking about how he intended to solve the mystery surrounding the four deaths. However, he snapped into alertness when he became aware that the monk was making plans on his behalf.
‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ he objected. ‘My students are taking their final disputations soon, and they are not yet ready for—’
‘They are better prepared than any class in the University,’ countered Michael. ‘And if they are lacking in some vital area, it is too late to correct it now. You are not needed as they re-read the texts they have already studied, and your presence will only make them nervous. It would be kinder if you let them be.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Bartholomew, a little indignantly.
‘I mean that you have unreasonably high expectations, and the pressure may have an adverse effect. Let them revise without interference, and help me instead. It will be better for everyone.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Matt. You have become a tyrant in the lecture hall, and it is time to stop. You cannot push them as hard as you push yourself.’
Bartholomew was about to deny the charge when he recalled that his students had accused him of intimidating them on occasion. Moreover, Michael was right in that there was no point in trying to teach them anything new now, and his senior students were more than capable of reading exemplars to the others. He supposed, reluctantly, that he could afford to let them relax a little.
‘If there was foul play, then I would like to see the killer brought to justice,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘I liked Northwood, and Vale was a colleague.’
‘You did not like Vale, too?’ pounced Michael, too astute not to notice the careful wording of his friend’s capitulation.
Bartholomew hesitated, but supposed Michael had a right to know his opinion of the man whose death he was going to explore. ‘I thought him unsuited to our profession. He lacked tact, and he behaved inappropriately with female patients.’
‘Did he?’ Michael was intrigued. ‘I know Edith said he made a nuisance of himself with her seamstresses, while Jorz claimed he laughed at an embarrassing ailment.’
‘He was more interested in devising a cure-all than in his patients,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It meant he did not take the time to listen to their symptoms before prescribing a solution, and he sometimes made mistakes. He was not a very good physician.’
‘Well, we shall bear his failings in mind as we investigate. Of course, I still have Coslaye to consider, too. I promised to catch the villain who nearly killed him.’
‘I imagine that was an accident – the tome was thrown more in frustration than a serious attempt to wound. Besides, it was weeks ago. Any trail will be cold by now.’
‘It was cold before I started, or the villain would have been arrested already. However, a crime is a crime, and I am unwilling to forget that one. I do not want scholars thinking that S
t Mary the Great is a good venue for lobbing missiles at colleagues who make contentious remarks.’
‘It is fortunate that Coslaye has an unusually thick skull, or the blow would have killed him outright. Even so, I was afraid that he would not survive the surgery. He was very lucky.’
‘The collision damaged the book, too,’ recalled Michael. ‘Acton’s Questio Disputata. Not a great treatise, but respectable enough. I gave it to him once he was up and walking again, as compensation for all his suffering.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking this a little insensitive.
‘I thought he could sell it for— Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and he wears the expression that tells me something terrible has happened. Again.’
‘You are both needed at King’s Hall,’ announced Cynric. ‘Master Sawtre has had an accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’ asked Michael warily.
‘Apparently,’ replied Cynric, ‘he has been crushed under a bookcase.’
It was not far along the High Street to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most prestigious College. It enjoyed the patronage of the King himself, and the sons of nobles were sent to it for their education. It was an impressive foundation, with a great gatehouse and powerful walls that would protect it from all but the most determined attacks – and as its ostentatious affluence was infuriating to many townsfolk, defence was a necessity. Behind the gate were several handsome accommodation blocks, an assortment of houses and a large hall for teaching.
A porter conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the building that housed the College’s collection of books. Somewhat unusually, King’s Hall had elected to store them in purpose-built, ceiling-high racks – most University foundations preferred their shelving to be nearer the ground for ease of access. The racks were heavy, especially when filled, and one had toppled forward, shooting its contents across the floor. All that could be seen of the man underneath was a hand. Bartholomew knelt quickly and felt for a life-beat, but the wrist was cold and dead.
At least twenty King’s Hall Fellows had gathered around the corpse in a mute semicircle. In the middle was their Warden, a timid, retiring gentleman, who struggled to control the large number of arrogant, wealthy young men under his supervision. Walkelate was there, too, tearful and frightened, and Bartholomew recalled that the architect and Sawtre were the only two members of King’s Hall who had voted in favour of the Common Library. He felt a twinge of unease, recalling what Deynman had said about dissenters being eliminated.
‘We could see that there was no need to pull Sawtre out quickly,’ said Warden Shropham, breaking into his troubled thoughts. ‘So we left everything as we found it, for you to …’
He trailed off, clearly distressed, and a brash scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as great as he thought it was, came to rest a kindly hand on his shoulder.
‘Sawtre was dusting the shelves,’ Dodenho explained. ‘Which was his particular responsibility. We heard a crash, and rushed in to see the bookcase had torn away from its moorings.’
He pointed, and Bartholomew and Michael both looked upwards. There were six sizeable holes in the wall, and when they glanced back to the bookcase, it was to see six corresponding nails jutting out from the back of it.
‘He must have tugged on it, reaching for the top shelf,’ said Walkelate, pale and shaking. ‘The floor is not very level, you see, and there was always a danger that this particular unit might topple.’
‘Then why did you not do something about it?’ asked Michael, prodding the floorboards with his toe. They were indeed uneven.
‘We were going to,’ said Shropham wretchedly. ‘At the end of term, when our students have finished their disputations. Mending it will be noisy, and we wanted to avoid needless disturbance at such a stressful time.’
A number of Fellows stepped forward to lift the rack, eager to play their part for a fallen comrade. It was extremely weighty, and required every one of them. Once it was upright, Bartholomew began removing the books that covered Sawtre’s body, picking them up carefully and handing them to Dodenho, who piled them neatly and lovingly to one side.
Despite the fact that his mind should have been on the duties for which he was being paid, the physician noticed that King’s Hall had some unusual and beautiful volumes, including several on medicine that he had never read. He wondered if Shropham would grant him access to them, but then thought that he might not have to ask if the Common Library lived up to expectations.
‘I wonder if it is divine justice,’ mused Dodenho, brushing dust from Dante’s Inferno. ‘Sawtre voted inappropriately at the Convocation, and now he is dead in the very library he wronged.’
‘He did not wrong this library,’ objected Walkelate. He sounded dispirited: like Bartholomew, he was tired of repeating himself to colleagues who were so vehemently and immovably opposed to his point of view. ‘He supported the founding of a central repository because he felt poor scholars deserve access to books, too.’
‘You would say that,’ muttered Dodenho. ‘You voted with him – against our Warden’s orders.’
‘Actually, I told everyone to act as his conscience dictated,’ said Shropham quietly.
‘Quite,’ said Dodenho. ‘My conscience would never let me do anything to harm King’s Hall.’
Other Fellows joined the discussion, but Bartholomew was not listening – he had finally moved enough books to allow him to examine the body. He was vaguely aware of the debate growing acrimonious, and of Michael standing silently to one side, drawing his own conclusions from who said what, but his own attention was on Sawtre.
‘He was crushed,’ he said, eventually finishing his examination and standing up. Immediately, the squabbling stopped and the men of King’s Hall eased closer to hear his verdict. ‘The bookcase landed squarely on his chest, and its weight snapped the ribs beneath. These pierced his lungs. I imagine death came very quickly.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ said Shropham, crossing himself.
Walkelate began to sob, so Dodenho put an arm around his shoulders and led him away, leaving the remaining Fellows to discuss what had happened in shocked whispers.
‘Was it a mishap, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Or did one of Sawtre’s “grieving” colleagues arrange an accident in order to punish him for dissenting?’
‘They seem genuinely distressed to me,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And there is nothing on the body to suggest foul play – no sign that Sawtre was forced to stand under the case while it was toppled, or that he was incapacitated while the deed was done.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But he makes five Regents dead who voted in favour of the Common Library. If we held a second ballot now, the grace would be repealed.’
‘Then it is just as well a second ballot is not in the offing,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Newe Inn is almost ready, and there would be a riot if you abandoned the project at this late hour.’
‘I have a bad feeling we shall have one of those anyway. Its more rabid detractors will not let the opening ceremonies pass off without incident.’
There was no more to be done at King’s Hall, so Bartholomew wrapped Sawtre’s body, ready to be carried to the church, and followed Michael towards the gate. Shropham accompanied them.
‘I know how this looks,’ he said, when there was no one to overhear. ‘Sawtre went against his colleagues, and now he is dead. However, it was an accident.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yet you cannot deny that there was ill feeling among the Fellowship towards him. And despite what you said in the library, I am sure you must have made it perfectly clear how you wanted them all to vote.’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘I am not a despot. I instructed every man to act as he thought appropriate. I imagine you did the same at Michaelhouse.’
‘Actually, I told my colleagues to oppose the grace with every fibre of their bei
ng,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at Bartholomew. ‘But not all of them obeyed.’
‘It must be awkward for Walkelate here,’ said Bartholomew, pitying the kindly architect for the uncomfortable position he occupied, especially now he had lost Sawtre’s support. ‘He not only voted for the library, but he is the one fitting it out.’
Shropham sighed. ‘Well, if we must have the wretched place, it is only right that the University’s best architect should design it. Walkelate produced a book-depository for the King, you know, in Westminster.’
‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘Are there many books in the royal collections?’
Shropham gave one of his sad smiles. ‘None that will interest you, Matthew. They nearly all pertain to law and property.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So how did Walkelate come to be chosen for such a task?’
‘Because his father is the King’s sergeant-at-arms,’ explained Shropham. ‘So Walkelate is known at Court, and the Lord Chancellor is a great admirer of his work.’
‘You mean his father is a soldier?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael shot him a patronising look. ‘It is an honorific post, Matt. They see to ceremonials and the like. It has nothing to do with warfare.’
‘Although Walkelate did receive knightly training in his youth,’ added Shropham. ‘But like most of us, that was rather a long time ago.’
Once out of King’s Hall, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their walk to St Mary the Great, and it was not long before they reached its bright splendour. Sunlight filtered through its stained-glass windows, casting bright flecks of colour on the stone floor, and there was a pleasant aroma of incense and from the greenery that bedecked its windowsills.
The four bodies had been placed in the Lady Chapel, where they lay in a line on the floor, each covered with a blanket. Water had seeped from them during the night, leaving puddles. Michael watched Bartholomew remove the cover from the first victim, but promptly disappeared on business of his own when the physician began his examination by prising open the corpse’s mouth. As Senior Proctor, he had an office in one of the aisles – larger and better furnished than the one occupied by the Chancellor, as befitted his status as the University’s most powerful scholar – and it was a far nicer place to be than watching his Corpse Examiner at work.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 9