Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Dunning regarded him askance. ‘Why would I? They contain nothing I want to know.’

  ‘Then why do you have them?’ asked Bartholomew, taken aback in his turn.

  ‘They look nice on the shelves,’ explained Dunning. ‘And Julitta likes them. I wish now that I had let her learn to read, because her fascination with literature means that we have to pay students to do it for her. Still, I shall save money once she is wed, because Holm will read to her.’

  Julitta smiled in happy anticipation of romantic evenings to come, and Bartholomew felt a surge of dismay, sure Holm would do nothing of the kind. As if on cue, there was a clatter on the stairs, and a maid announced that the surgeon would be joining them for a cup of wine. Bartholomew watched Julitta’s face light up when Holm swaggered into the room. The newcomer made a courtly bow to her and Dunning, then saw they had company.

  ‘Bartholomew,’ he said, not altogether pleasantly. ‘And Michael. What brings you here?’

  ‘They came to dine,’ explained Dunning, nodding to Julitta to fetch more claret from the kitchen. ‘We have been discussing the celebrations for Corpus Christi. And books.’

  ‘Dunning arranged for me to be elected to his Guild,’ said Holm with careless pride. ‘So I shall be part of the pageant, too. I think I shall buy myself a new gown, perhaps with the five marks I am about to win.’

  ‘I hope you have not been gambling,’ admonished Dunning. ‘I do not approve of it.’

  ‘A simple wager that I cannot lose,’ explained Holm smoothly. ‘It was hardly sporting of me to accept it, to tell you the truth, but I could not help myself. Who am I to overlook free money?’

  Dunning was unconvinced. ‘In my experience, there is no such thing as free money, but you know best, I suppose. You come very late tonight. Have you been with a patient?’

  ‘Yes – I have just saved a child’s life. He was screaming with the pain of an earache, so I gave him a good dose of mandrake and poppy juice. Now he is sleeping like a … well, like a baby.’

  Bartholomew was horrified: those were very powerful substances for an infant. ‘Have you tried dropping a little oil of camomile or mullein into the infected ear?’ he asked, struggling to be tactful. ‘It usually serves to reduce—’

  ‘I cannot be bothered with feeble remedies,’ said Holm dismissively. ‘I usually treat earache by inserting a probe into the patient’s ear, and waggling it about. It loosens any wax, you see.’

  ‘Christ!’ blurted Bartholomew. ‘Do any of your patients go deaf after your ministrations?’

  ‘No one has complained yet,’ replied Holm shortly. ‘And I have poked around in the ears of dozens of small children.’

  Children who might not appreciate the fact that they had been deprived of one of their senses, thought Bartholomew, deeply unimpressed. Dunning spoke before he could pursue the matter.

  ‘How about a little music, Holm? You say you have a fine voice, but we have yet to hear it, and I am in the mood to be entertained.’

  Holm had hummed when he had ‘assisted’ Bartholomew with the surgery on Coslaye’s skull, and the physician recalled flinching several times at the sour notes that had emerged – and being obliged to ask him to desist in the end, lest it distressed their semi-conscious patient.

  ‘Another time,’ said Holm, but not before Bartholomew caught the flash of alarm in his eyes: he had lied about his accomplishments. ‘When you have a lutenist to accompany me.’

  ‘I can play the lute,’ said Bartholomew wickedly. He was not very good at it, but he suspected it would not be his lack of talent that would be evident.

  ‘And I sing,’ said Michael, who did indeed have a fine voice. ‘We shall perform a duet.’

  ‘A duet?’ cried Julitta, entering the room with a jug. ‘How delightful!’

  Holm stepped forward, took her hand and raised it to his lips. For the first time, Bartholomew studied him closely, to see why so many women considered him attractive. Reluctantly, for he found himself loath to think anything good about the man, he conceded that Holm was unusually handsome: he had arresting dark blue eyes to go with his golden mane, and his tight-fitting gipon, or tunic, had been cut to show off his slender figure to its best advantage. When he smiled at Julitta, even Bartholomew, who was not usually very observant about such matters, could see her heart melting with adoration for him.

  ‘Not tonight, dearest. I am hoarse from advising patients all day, and when you hear me sing, I want my voice to be at its best. I should hate to disappoint you.’

  Julitta held his hand and gazed fondly at him until Dunning broke the moment by beginning to describe the ceremony at which Holm had been installed as a member of the Guild of Corpus Christi. The surgeon preened when Dunning remarked that he had never heard the oath of allegiance taken with such gravitas and dignity.

  ‘Vale said the same,’ he confided smugly. ‘Before he died, of course.’

  ‘Did you know Vale well?’ asked Michael, pouring himself more claret.

  ‘Not really,’ Holm replied. ‘We both arrived in Cambridge on Easter Day, so as newly established practitioners, we were naturally drawn to each other. But we were not friends.’

  ‘You told me you liked him,’ pounced Bartholomew, recalling Holm’s wish, expressed as they had walked home together the previous evening, that it had been another physician who had died.

  ‘No, I said I preferred him to the other medici,’ corrected Holm pedantically. ‘That is not the same as liking him.’

  ‘So what did you think of him?’ Michael sounded a little exasperated.

  ‘That he was a scoundrel, particularly where women were concerned. No lady was safe from his pawing advances, not even married ones.’

  ‘Vale once boasted to Bonabes that he was going to seduce Ruth,’ said Dunning, scowling his indignation. ‘Bonabes said he would run him through if he tried.’

  ‘But please do not tell her,’ begged Julitta uncomfortably. ‘She does not know that part of the story, and it would embarrass her if she thought she had been the subject of such a discussion.’ She glanced pointedly at her father. ‘In fact, I thought we had agreed to keep it between ourselves.’

  ‘So we did,’ slurred Dunning, chagrined. ‘I forgot. Anyway, suffice to say that, out of spite, Vale put about a tale that Ruth was his secret lover. I imagine some folk believed it.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Holm chivalrously. ‘No one could believe ill of Sir Eustace Dunning’s daughters. They are paragons of virtue, as well as beauty.’

  Greasy, thought Bartholomew sourly, recalling what Edith had said about the surgeon.

  The discussion ranged off on to other matters then, and Bartholomew listened with half an ear, feeling his dislike of Holm mount by the moment. Was it because the man was an appalling sycophant, and his toadying was nauseating? Or because he was a dismal surgeon, too timid to perform procedures that should have been second nature, yet unafraid to dose children with unsuitable medicines or jab probes into their ears? Or because he was so flagrantly wrong for Julitta? Bartholomew studied her covertly. He longed to know her better, but in less than a month her marital status would mean that even the most innocent of friendships would be inappropriate.

  ‘Will some of these books wend their way to the Common Library?’ Michael asked when the conversation returned to Dunning’s collection. ‘Or will you spread your largesse more widely? Michaelhouse is always looking for new tomes.’

  Bartholomew choked into his wine, startled by the brazen rapacity of the remark.

  ‘Michaelhouse cannot have these,’ replied Dunning. ‘They will be Julitta’s when I die.’

  ‘What if she would rather have them sooner?’ asked Holm. He smiled at his fiancée. ‘Perhaps you should consider making them part of her dowry. Then I shall be able to read them to her as we spend romantic evenings together by the fire.’

  Julitta flushed with pleasure at the notion, although Bartholomew was inclined to suspect that the surgeon was simply trying to negotiate
himself a more profitable arrangement. Or was jealousy making him ungracious? But when Dunning shook his head at the suggestion, and he saw the flash of avaricious disappointment in Holm’s eyes, he knew he was right to be suspicious.

  ‘She cannot have them yet,’ slurred Dunning. ‘I may not peruse the things myself, but I like to see them on my shelves. They look pretty in their neat rows. Do you not agree?’

  Unwilling to listen to Holm’s gushing agreement, Bartholomew took down a psalter. He suspected, from the profusion of chickens, devils and ribauldequins, that it had come from the Carmelites, and was impressed by their collective talent. The weapon in particular was uncannily accurate, right down to the specks of rust on its metal barrels. He found himself thinking about Poitiers, and the fact that Dame Pelagia had admitted to being there, which led him to consider anew her reasons for descending on the town.

  Had she dispatched Vale and the others, perhaps because they were experimenting on the sly, and she disapproved? But if she had, then surely she would not have lingered in Cambridge afterwards? Or had the quartet encountered the hooded men who had demanded the formula for wildfire, been mistaken for medici and killed when they had been unable to provide what was wanted? Bartholomew shuddered. It was not a comfortable thought.

  The sun was setting, a great orange ball in a cloudless sky. A blackbird trilled from the top of the oak tree in Dunning’s garden, and there was a pleasing scent of warm earth and summer flowers. Michael settled more comfortably on a bench and refilled his goblet, but Bartholomew stood to leave. He still did not feel completely well, and knew it would be sensible to go home and secure a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘You ate virtually nothing this evening,’ said Julitta, escorting him down the stairs. He was acutely aware of Holm’s proprietary gaze on her as they went. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘My stomach is unsettled from swallowing bad water. It is nothing serious.’

  ‘I see.’ Julitta looked thoughtful. ‘What would you prescribe for a patient who came to you with the symptoms you are experiencing?’

  ‘Nothing too strong. Perhaps a tonic of lovage root and mint. Why?’

  ‘I shall make you one.’ Julitta raised her hand when he began to object. ‘Come with me to the kitchen. I have those ingredients, and it will not take a moment to boil some water.’

  ‘You boil water for tonics?’ asked Bartholomew, impressed. He did the same himself, although it was a practice his medical colleagues deemed deeply unorthodox.

  ‘Of course! Unboiled water causes fluxes. I strain it, too, through a cloth, to eliminate further impurities.’

  Bartholomew was very interested. Here was a woman after his own heart! ‘Have you evidence to suggest that strained water is more effective?’ he asked keenly.

  Julitta smiled. ‘I am afraid not. You see, so much sinister-looking sludge adheres to the cloth after filtering that I would never dream of not doing it now. I strain and boil all our water, even the stuff we use to wash our hands.’

  Bartholomew gazed at her. The benefits of hand-washing was another practice his fellow medici scoffed at, yet here was Julitta speaking as though hygiene was routine in her household. He found himself warming to her even more.

  They reached the kitchen, which was spacious and spotlessly clean. Julitta indicated he was to sit at the table while she worked, and began chatting about mutual acquaintances – especially Edith, for whom she held a particular affection. At that point her conquest of Bartholomew was complete, for he was always willing to think well of people who praised his beloved sister. He listened to her with mounting affection, quite forgetting her fiancé sitting upstairs.

  Eventually, she presented him with a cup. He sipped the contents warily, not sure how he felt about a woman preparing medicines he usually made himself. Its flavour was more pleasant than his own brews, and he realised that she had added honey. He resolved to do likewise in future – assuming his bet with Holm did not plunge him deep into debt, of course, and prevent him from purchasing ingredients for remedies ever again.

  ‘Thank you for reasoning with your father in St Mary the Great this morning,’ he said, watching her place the used pan in a bucket, ready to be washed the following day. ‘I think he might have decried me as a warlock had you not intervened.’

  ‘Oh, he would,’ she agreed. ‘And you do have a reputation for necromancy.’

  ‘Yes, but it is undeserved,’ he said defensively.

  Julitta regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Is it? Despite my defence of you, I know you were planning to slice into Vale. I could tell by the angle of your blade.’

  Bartholomew was horrified – he did not want her to think him a ghoul. Or a sorcerer, for that matter. ‘Then why did you tell your father I was cutting knotted laces?’

  ‘Well, it was only Vale, and I have never liked him.’ Bartholomew glanced sharply at her, and saw her eyes were twinkling: she was teasing him. Then her expression became sombre. ‘I defended you because I want you to find out what happened to Northwood, which you cannot do if you are in gaol for desecrating corpses. He was a dear, kind man, who often came to read to me, and I shall miss him terribly. He was teaching me philosophy.’

  ‘Was he?’ Here was yet another aspect of Northwood’s complex character: the patient tutor. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the subject fascinates me. If he was feloniously killed, I want the culprit brought to justice, and if that means misleading my father about the Corpse Examiner who is helping to investigate his death, then so be it. Besides, I know you wielded the knife only because you wanted answers. There was no wickedness in it.’

  Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, feeling her remarks entitled her to an explanation. ‘I think Northwood and the others were poisoned, but an external examination will never prove it. The only way to know for certain is to look inside them, to see whether damage to entrails …’ He trailed off, not sure how much detail to provide.

  Julitta winced. ‘I can see how such a procedure might be useful, but it is horrible nonetheless. Perhaps you had better not embark on it, especially in St Mary the Great, where the chances of being caught are rather high.’

  ‘It will not happen again,’ he said fervently. ‘I have learned my lesson.’

  Julitta smiled. ‘Good. Then let us say no more about it.’ She cleared her throat apprehensively. ‘At the risk of sounding selfish, one of the reasons I was distressed by Northwood’s demise was because he had offered to teach me to read. I do not suppose you would oblige, would you?’

  Bartholomew blinked, wondering whether he had misheard, but could tell from the hope in her eyes that he had not. His heart clamoured at him to say yes, to earn time in her company, but the rational part of his mind reminded him that he was too busy and she was betrothed.

  ‘If you like,’ he heard himself say. ‘But why ask me? I imagine Holm would enjoy—’

  ‘It will be my wedding gift to him,’ said Julitta, eyes sparkling. ‘A literate woman to manage his household, and to provide him with intelligent conversation during long winter evenings.’

  ‘Holm is a very lucky man,’ said Bartholomew quietly.

  Julitta laughed happily. ‘And I am a very lucky woman.’

  It was dark by the time Bartholomew left Dunning’s house. The High Street was full of apprentices and labourers who had spent the evening beautifying their masters’ property in preparation for the upcoming festival, and who had then gone to slake their thirst in alehouses. Now they were spilling out in drunken gaggles. Although there had been no serious trouble between the University and the town for months, a lone scholar still presented an attractive target for drink-fuelled townsmen, so Bartholomew cut down the alley that led to Milne Street to avoid unnecessary confrontations. He recalled that Cynric was supposed to be accompanying him out at night, as per Michael’s recommendation following the attack by the hooded men who had wanted the formula for wildfire, but it had not occurred to him to ask the book-bearer to oblige.

 
; Unfortunately, Milne Street contained its own collection of rowdy gangs, so with a weary sigh, he aimed for Cholles Lane instead. He strode past Batayl Hostel, Newe Inn and Holm’s house, and turned right when he reached the river. There were no taverns on or by the towpath, and he would be able to enter Michaelhouse by its back gate.

  As he walked, the clouds drifted away from the moon to reveal shadowy figures on the path ahead. He slowed, assuming some of the boisterous rabble had decided to cool themselves with a refreshing dip. They were everywhere that night, it seemed.

  But there was nothing in the swift, confident way the figures moved to suggest they had been at the ale, and as he watched, he had the distinct impression that they were engaged in something felonious. He turned away, not so foolish as to challenge them on his own, and supposed that he would have to find yet another route home. But he had taken no more than a few steps back the way he had come before he stopped again.

  Two men stood in front of him. It was too dark to see anything of them, other than the fact that their clothes appeared to be black and they wore some form of armour – he could hear leather creak and the clink of metal as they moved.

  ‘Cut his throat,’ said one to his companion. ‘We have no time for nuisances.’

  The other stepped forward, so Bartholomew whipped around and fled, acutely aware of footsteps pounding behind him. His route took him towards the shadowy figures farther on, but they had not ordered his death and he thought their presence would serve to foil the killers on his heels. He soon realised his mistake. Heads jerked up at the sound of running feet, and he heard the distinctive hiss of swords being drawn. Too late, he saw they were wearing the same kind of armour as the pair who were chasing him.

  He skidded to a standstill, and one of his pursuers barrelled into him, sending him sprawling. He tried to stagger to his feet, but they forced him to the ground again. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Visions of Adam’s slit throat flooded his mind, and he fought as hard as he could. Then he was released abruptly, and all he could hear was retreating footsteps. He struggled to his knees, spinning around in alarm when he sensed a presence behind him.