‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Etone worriedly. ‘We shall have to ask Michael’s beadles to keep a protective eye on us for the next few days.’
‘Or you could apologise for the soot, and offer a truce,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘Apologise?’ spluttered Riborowe. ‘Never!’
‘Actually, that is a good idea,’ countered Etone, somewhat unexpectedly. ‘I am weary of this dispute, and see no point in continuing it. I shall apologise, and Matthew will go with me, as a witness.’
‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew unenthusiastically.
‘Yes, now,’ said Etone. ‘Before I decide it is too great a burden for my pride to bear.’
Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after him, but when they reached Batayl it was to discover everyone out except Pepin, who had been left on guard. The Frenchman said that the students had gone to hear a sermon in St Mary the Great, while Coslaye and Browne were in Newe Inn.
‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘I thought they disapproved of the library.’
‘They do,’ replied Pepin. ‘But Walkelate thinks he can win them over by showing them his finished lecterns. The man is a fool. His nasty library has deprived Batayl of better living conditions, and no amount of fine carving will ever make us overlook that fact.’
‘Well, I intend to overlook the wrong that has been inflicted on me,’ said Etone loftily. ‘I do not have the energy to hold grudges – not against Dunning for breaking his promise, and not against Batayl for challenging us about it.’
Once again, Bartholomew found himself in Etone’s wake, as the Prior strode towards Newe Inn. The door was open, so they entered.
‘Good God, it reeks in here!’ exclaimed Etone, waving his hand in front of his face. He grinned a little spitefully. ‘The guests at its grand opening are going to be asphyxiated.’
Bartholomew followed him up the stairs, where they could hear voices. They entered the room containing the libri distribuendi, and found Walkelate proudly displaying some finished mouldings to an unlikely audience that included Coslaye, Browne, Dunning and Bonabes. Meanwhile, Kente and Frevill, exhausted after yet another day of gruellingly hard work, were packing up their tools.
‘They are all right, I suppose,’ Coslaye was saying grudgingly. ‘But battle scenes would have been preferable to all this Paradise nonsense. And you should have made Aristotle more manly.’
‘We should not linger here, Coslaye,’ said Browne, also regarding the bust with contempt. ‘Libraries are dangerous. Five men have died in and around them already.’
‘I hardly think—’ began Walkelate indignantly.
‘Etone! What are you doing here?’ Browne’s instantly furtive expression suggested that he probably had intended to harm Jorz by slinking up behind him, and was now worried that the Prior intended to demand reparation.
‘I came to offer a truce,’ replied Etone. ‘We are even now: our novice should not have put soot on your mural, but you should not have startled Jorz when he was working with hot liquids. I should like to bring an end to our dispute. What do you say?’
‘I shall think about it,’ said Coslaye coldly. ‘And I will send you my decision later. Or perhaps I shall reject your slithering advances. You will just have to wait and see.’
Head held high, he sailed away. With a churlish smirk, Browne followed.
‘You see, Matthew?’ said Etone in exasperation. ‘It is hopeless! I offer them an olive branch, and they spit on it. Well, they can have a feud, if that is what they want.’
‘No!’ cried Walkelate, distressed. ‘You are right to end this silly spat. It would be a pity for ill feelings to sour our opening ceremony on Thursday, and—’
But Etone was already striding away, so Walkelate was obliged to scurry after him to finish what he wanted to say. Kente and Frevill were hot on his heels, tool-bags slung over their shoulders, eager to wash the wood dust from their throats with cool ale. Bonabes, Dunning and Bartholomew followed more sedately.
‘You are wasting your time if you think you can help forge a truce between Batayl and the Carmelites, Bartholomew,’ said Bonabes. ‘Neither side seems wholly rational to me.’
‘Nor to me,’ agreed Dunning. ‘And I object to them saying that the source of their discord is my so-called promise to give each of them Newe Inn. I did nothing of the kind.’
‘What were you doing here?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘Surely it is a little late for guided tours?’
Bonabes winced. ‘We happened to be passing, and Walkelate raced out and hauled us inside to inspect Aristotle’s newly buffed bust. It is not the first time he has ambushed me to admire his works of art, so I think I must avoid Cholles Lane in future.’
Dunning chuckled good-naturedly. ‘He is something of a menace in that respect.’
They walked down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, Etone used the opportunity afforded by their arrival to escape from Walkelate. Bonabes and Dunning followed him, and they could be heard laughing in the lane together, amused by the architect’s eccentric enthusiasm. Oblivious of the reason for their mirth, Walkelate began talking to Bartholomew.
‘I am glad you came, because I have something to tell you. Alfred, our youngest apprentice, informed me today that he heard a bell in the garden last week – he spent a night here, you see, sanding a cornice. He only remembered it today, but he wanted me to inform you or Michael. However, I imagine he fell asleep and dreamt it, because bells do not ring at that hour.’
‘I am not so sure. Coslaye heard one chiming when Northwood and the others died.’
‘Really?’ Walkelate shook his head, baffled. Then a happy grin stole across his face. ‘Kente put the finishing touches to the lecterns for the libri distribuendi an hour ago. Come and see them.’
‘Another time.’ Bartholomew saw the disappointment in Walkelate’s face, and hastened to make amends. ‘It is too dark to appreciate them properly now.’
‘We made excellent progress today,’ said Walkelate, his excitement bubbling up again. The libri concatenati are ready, and we shall keep their room closed now, until our grand opening. Well, we shall have to oust the bale of hay, but that will not take a moment.’
‘The bale of hay?’ asked Bartholomew, nonplussed.
Walkelate smiled. ‘Holm’s concoction was not working, so Dunning suggested an old country remedy instead – the theory is that dry grass absorbs strong odours from the air. He assures me that by Thursday, the room will smell as sweet as a meadow.’
Bartholomew started to walk home to Michaelhouse, aware that the daylight was fading fast. Recalling what had happened the last two times he had wandered about the town after dark on his own, he broke into a trot, eager for the sanctuary of the conclave, where wine and perhaps some cake would be waiting. He jumped in alarm when Cynric materialised in front of him.
‘You should not be out at this time of night without me,’ the Welshman said admonishingly. ‘It is not safe.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we are almost home.’
‘You cannot go home,’ said Cynic. His expression became sympathetic when he saw Bartholomew’s tiredness. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘They are Meryfeld’s patients.’
‘There was a dispute about overcharging, apparently, and Meryfeld declines to answer their summonses until they acknowledge that he is in the right.’
‘But Master Heltisle does not like me,’ said Bartholomew, too weary for a confrontation with the prickly Master of Bene’t. ‘It would be better if you fetched Gyseburne or Rougham.’
‘Neither is home. I am on my way to Batayl, by the way, to tell them about Poitiers, but I will walk with you to Bene’t first.’
Bartholomew had forgotten about Cynric’s invitation to lecture, and hoped the talk would not induce a lot of patriotic fervour that would be uncomfortable for Pepin.
‘Do not mention me in your account,’ he begged. ‘Half the town b
elieves I am a warlock, and I do not want the other half thinking I am a warrior. Tell them about your own exploits.’
‘Very well,’ promised Cynric. ‘But here we are at Bene’t. Knock on the door to make sure they are willing to let you in. If not, I shall escort you back to Michaelhouse.’
Bartholomew was disappointed when the porter stepped aside and indicated he was to enter, because Cynric’s offer of company home was appealing. The book-bearer nodded a farewell and disappeared into the gathering shadows, as silent-footed as a cat.
‘Damn!’ muttered Thomas Heltisle, a tall, aloof man with neat silver hair, when he saw which physician had answered his summons. ‘I had hoped one of the others would be available.’
‘I am happy to leave, and you can wait for—’
‘No,’ said Heltisle hastily. ‘I do not want the Devil’s crony in my College, but John Rolee has knocked himself senseless, so it is an emergency and I have no choice. Come.’
He began hauling Bartholomew across the yard before the physician could take issue with him. As they went, it occurred to Bartholomew that he had never been in Bene’t’s library before. The heads of the other Colleges were happy to let him use their books, but Heltisle had always refused.
When they arrived, he was impressed. The room – a chamber above one of the teaching halls – was crammed with texts of all shapes and sizes. Unlike King’s Hall with its mighty bookcases, Bene’t had opted for a low mezzanine gallery that ran around all four walls to provide additional storage; access to it was via an elegantly crafted but rather unstable set of wheeled steps.
Heltisle’s six Fellows stood in a huddle near the window. They nodded wary greetings to him, and one or two crossed themselves, as if they expected Satan to be close at hand now he was there.
‘Over here,’ called a small, feisty scholar named Teversham. He was crouching next to someone on the floor. ‘We have tried shouting and tapping his face, but we cannot wake him up.’
Bartholomew’s heart sank as he approached. Rolee’s head lay at a peculiar angle, and it was obvious that his neck had been broken.
‘I am afraid it is too late,’ he said, kneeling and performing a perfunctory examination to confirm what he already knew. ‘He is dead.’
‘He cannot be!’ cried Heltisle, shocked. ‘He was talking with us not half an hour ago. We were discussing elephants, and he came to fetch his bestiary, to show us what they look like.’
‘And he fell?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘The steps broke,’ explained Heltisle, pointing to where the wheeled stairs lay on their side. ‘We heard the crash, and came racing in here to find him … But he cannot be dead, Bartholomew! He is just knocked out of his wits. Look again.’
‘His neck is broken,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. If it is any consolation, death would have been instant. He felt nothing.’
‘It is no consolation at all!’ shouted Heltisle. ‘He owes me ten shillings.’
To mask his bemusement at the remark, Bartholomew went to inspect the ladder. One of the legs had split, causing the whole thing to topple sideways when Rolee reached the top. It was not much of a drop from the mezzanine, and he had been acutely unlucky to land so awkwardly.
‘Will there be an investigation?’ asked Heltisle in an uncharacteristically small voice. He hated situations that involved the Senior Proctor, because bad publicity affected benefactions.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Michael will need to examine the steps, and he will want you to tell him exactly what happened. Beyond that, I cannot say.’
‘Very well,’ sniffed Heltisle. ‘Although it is a waste of time. He can do more good by looking into those four corpses at the Common Library. The grace to found such an institution should never have been passed, you know. It is a wicked scheme, and will end in tears.’
There was a chorus of agreement from his Fellows. Bartholomew said nothing, knowing the remarks were aimed at him for having had the audacity to support it.
‘We are not paying you for this visit, by the way,’ said Heltisle. ‘We called you to help Rolee, but instead you only pronounced him dead. You did not use your skills to save him.’
A fee had been the last thing on Bartholomew’s mind – he frequently forgot to charge for his services anyway – and he waved away Heltisle’s comment as of no consequence.
‘So you may have this instead,’ Heltisle went on, pressing a book into his hands.
‘No!’ Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘This is far too valuable for—’
‘I have never heard a physician try to negotiate his fee downwards before,’ said Heltisle with a grim smile. ‘Perhaps the tales about your honesty are true after all.’
‘Oh, he is honest,’ muttered Teversham. ‘That has never been in question. It is his pact with the Devil that I am worried about.’
Bartholomew sighed wearily. ‘I have no pact with the Devil. Why will no one believe me?’
‘Because no medicus should enjoy as much success as you do,’ explained Teversham shortly. ‘It is not natural.’
‘You condemn me for saving people?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
‘If Satan does not help you, then how do you explain your victories?’ demanded Teversham.
‘Hot water mostly,’ flashed Bartholomew, and then wished he had not.
Evesham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Water that has been cooked in the fires of Hell?’
‘Water from the town well,’ snapped Bartholomew, angry with himself for not guessing how Bene’t would respond to his remarks, especially after his recent conversation with Gyseburne about boiled bandages. ‘Which has been heated in our kitchen.’
‘We do not want to know, thank you,’ said Heltisle, cutting across Teversham’s response. ‘However, to return to the book, we decided before you arrived that we would give it to the medicus who tended Rolee. Not only is it a bestiary – and we do not have room for such foolery in our library – but he cut his hand last week, and managed to smear blood all over it.’
Bartholomew peered at the ominous stain in the gloom. ‘I am sure it will wash off. But I cannot take a book, even so. It is far too—’
‘It is yours now, whether you like it or not,’ added Teversham. ‘Put it in your Common Library if you decline to keep it yourself. God knows, that foundation is tainted enough, so Rolee’s nasty volume should feel perfectly at home there.’
Bartholomew objected to being bullied into accepting a gift he did not want, but he was too tired for further confrontation. He nodded cool thanks, and left Bene’t without another word. He began to walk home again, craving the gentler company of Michaelhouse, but running footsteps made him spin around in alarm. He braced himself for trouble, but it was only Cynric.
‘Come quick,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘Coslaye was not in when I arrived, so the students went to look for him. They found him in his garden, and his head has been stove in by a book.’
‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew in dismay.
‘Yes,’ panted Cynric. ‘And your surgery will not save him this time. He is utterly dead.’
CHAPTER 8
It was not far from Bene’t College to Cholles Lane, and it took only a few moments for Bartholomew to run the distance, Cynric at his heels. It was now pitch black, and the streets smelled of warm dust and horse manure, overlain with the dank, rich odour of the river.
The door to Batayl was open, and Bartholomew walked inside to find the hostel deserted. Raised voices told him that everyone was in the tiny garden, which was accessed through a second door at the back of the house. Batayl’s eight students, Browne, Michael and two beadles were crammed into it, all clustered around Coslaye, who lay on the ground.
‘Perhaps you should take your lads inside, Browne,’ Michael was saying. ‘There is no need for them to witness this sad sight.’
‘There is every need,’ Browne snapped. ‘Their Principal has been most wickedly slain by Carmelites, and they should see this vile handiwork
.’
‘Enough,’ said Michael warningly. ‘We must assess the evidence before—’
‘Evidence be damned!’ shouted Browne. ‘We all know who did this terrible thing.’
The students howled their support, and it was not easy for Bartholomew to dodge through their waving fists to reach Coslaye. He managed, finally, shoving his new bestiary at Cynric, and inspecting the fallen Principal in the feeble light shed from a lamp held by Pepin.
Coslaye lay on his front, arms thrown out to the sides. He had been dealt a substantial blow from behind, heavy enough to smash his skull. An examination revealed no other suspicious marks, except a bad bruise on his left foot.
‘How did he come by this?’ he asked.
‘It probably happened in Newe Inn, which is always littered with dangerous bits of wood and tools,’ said Browne, his sullen expression making it clear that he considered the injury of far less importance than the one to Coslaye’s head, which had killed him. ‘Walkelate is always inviting us in there, probably in the hope that we will be maimed – in revenge for us opposing his stupid library.’
Bartholomew inspected the foot more closely, and deduced that something sharp had struck it, such as might have happened if a dagger had been lobbed. He stared at the mark. Had Coslaye been among the men who had ambushed him, injured by one of Pelagia’s knives? But why would he want a formula for wildfire? Or had Coslaye been hurt attacking the castle, and Robin had seen him among the raiders? But Coslaye claimed to have been quarrelling with the Carmelites at the time, and so could not have been wielding a sword.
Michael nodded to his beadles, who began to usher the Batayl men back into their hostel. They objected, particularly Browne, but the beadles were used to recalcitrant academics, and soon had them where they wanted them to be.
‘What can you tell me, Matt?’ asked Michael, once they had gone.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 23