Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘He approached me,’ replied Willelmus, alarmed by the monk’s belligerence. ‘And I was so frightened that it caused a seizure. Surgeon Holm and Doctor Rougham say I am lucky to survive.’

  ‘You seem well enough now,’ said Bartholomew, knowing it took rather longer to recover from genuine seizures. Holm and Rougham had exaggerated its seriousness to their patient, probably so they could charge a higher fee for their services.

  ‘I am mending,’ acknowledged Willelmus. ‘But I am not as fit as I was before it happened.’

  ‘What did you discuss with this terrifying individual?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘He asked where the tax money was kept,’ gulped Willelmus. ‘I am afraid I told him, because I feared he would kill me otherwise.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’ Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Every other witness says the robbers aimed straight for the Great Tower – they already knew where to go. So why did this one man stop to question you, especially once the raid was under way?’

  ‘I cannot be expected to know what is in the minds of criminals,’ said Willelmus, swallowing hard. ‘They probably think differently from normal men. All I can say is that he must have picked on me because I do not look brave and I was unarmed. He thought I would crack easily.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the friar intently. ‘You are lying. Our witnesses implied it was more conversation than interrogation, which suggests to me that you had spoken before. Do you not think it is time to tell us what is going on, so we can prevent another attack?’

  ‘No!’ squeaked Willelmus. ‘Your witnesses are wrong! I never—’

  ‘Tell us the truth,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or you will never see your scriptorium again.’

  Willelmus was close to tears. ‘All right! I did know him, but they will kill me if I talk. They said so, and I have no reason to doubt them. They will crush me like a snail.’

  ‘You talked to Ayera,’ said Michael harshly. ‘From Michaelhouse.’

  Willelmus closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied in a whisper.

  Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at the easy capitulation. ‘No! Ayera is not the one you really fear. Who else threatened you?’

  But Willelmus was silent, rocking back and forth in distress. Fortunately, small threads of evidence began to come together in Bartholomew’s mind.

  ‘It has been suggested that the invaders aimed straight for the Great Tower because they are local, so they know where the Sheriff stores his valuables. But they have been reconnoitring the town for weeks, killing anyone who sees them. However, perhaps they let some folk live in exchange for information.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael, his eyes steely. ‘They knew to assault the Great Tower not because they had a local’s knowledge, or because it was an obvious conclusion to draw, but because someone told them all they needed to know.’

  Willelmus’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘What will happen to me?’ he breathed.

  ‘That is for the Sheriff to decide,’ said Michael harshly. ‘However, I imagine it will involve a spell in his gaol, next to the villain he has already caught.’

  ‘That man will kill me, too,’ said Willelmus miserably. ‘I have been doomed from the start.’

  He tried to dart away, but it was not difficult for Bartholomew to intercept him. Moreover, his pathetic attempt at flight revealed a significant limp.

  ‘Was this miserable specimen one of those who attacked you the other night, Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were more of a warrior than that.’

  ‘I have not attacked anyone in years,’ sobbed Willelmus pitifully. ‘Not after …’

  ‘Not after the disaster that occurred when you tackled someone else,’ said Bartholomew, understanding coming in a blinding flash. ‘Willelmus is the Latin form of William. You are William Hildersham!’

  ‘Hildersham,’ mused Michael. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

  ‘It is the name of the scrivener who killed Ayce’s son all those years ago.’

  ‘How in God’s name did you reason that?’ asked Michael, when Willelmus slumped to the floor and began to sob. ‘An ancient murder was the last thing on my mind today.’

  ‘Because Willelmus could have warned the Sheriff, and remained safely hidden in the castle until the raiders were caught and the danger was over. But he let the attack take place without a word. Ergo, they have some other hold over him.’

  ‘I accept that,’ said Michael. ‘But what made you think of John Ayce? I know he was stabbed by a scribe, but there have been hundreds of them in Cambridge over the years.’

  ‘The clues are obvious with hindsight. What are the two letters Willelmus specialises in illustrating at the scriptorium?’

  ‘J and A,’ said Michael, round eyed. ‘John Ayce!’

  ‘He also draws chickens. And how did Ayce earn his living? By supplying the castle with eggs!’

  ‘It was an accident,’ wept Willelmus. ‘A secular jury declared me guilty, but they would have found against me no matter what the evidence, because my trial took place at a time when relations between town and University were strained. But it was an accident!’

  ‘Yes, probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘The University thought it was a case of self-defence, and was willing to look the other way when you escaped into the Fens. Why did you come back?’

  ‘I fled to London, where I joined the Carmelites to atone for my crime,’ replied Willelmus miserably. ‘But they transferred me to Cambridge five years ago, to help in the scriptorium here. Fortunately, no one recognised me, and I took care to stay inside the friary as much as possible. But then Sheriff Tulyet demanded a scribe for the taxes …’

  ‘Which necessitated coming to the castle,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Where someone did recognise you. No wonder you have been driving Dick so hard! You itch to be safe back inside your sanctuary again.’

  ‘I was accosted as I walked home one night,’ said Willelmus, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘By a fellow who had been on the jury. He said he would tell Prior Etone my real name unless I did as I was ordered. Yet I have tried to make amends for John Ayce’s death! People will see the letters I drew, and will admire the chickens. They are my way of honouring the man I …’

  ‘I want the juror’s name,’ said Michael. He sighed irritably when Willelmus looked frightened again. ‘Your secret is out now, and you have confessed to it. The worst has already happened, so what more do you have to lose?’

  ‘I did not know what the raiders intended,’ bleated Willelmus. ‘I swear it! They just asked questions, and I answered. Besides, this is a big fortress – I assumed it could defend itself.’

  ‘The juror’s name,’ repeated Michael between gritted teeth.

  ‘Ayera terrifies me,’ replied Willelmus, more tears sprouting.

  ‘I am sure he does, but he was not on the jury. Now tell me the truth.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Willelmus with sudden resolve. ‘I have no more to lose, and it is time I faced up to my past. I will tell you the name, but I want to speak to Ayce first, to explain …’

  ‘He will not listen,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He believes his son was brutally murdered, and you are unlikely to convince him otherwise. Moreover, he is a warrior who is eager to die. It will be dangerous for you.’

  ‘I will be dead when I tell you what I know anyway,’ said Willelmus with quiet dignity. ‘But I want to make my peace with Ayce first.’

  Bartholomew thought it was a bad idea to bring Ayce face to face with his son’s killer, but Willelmus was adamant, and Michael was eager to have the information he held. So was Tulyet, when the situation was explained to him.

  ‘It is irregular, but I suppose we can oblige,’ he said. ‘But answer me one thing first, Willelmus: how did you come by your limp? You claimed you fell down the stairs in the dark. Is it true, or did you grab a sword and fight for these damned marauders?’

  That notion coaxed a reluctant smile to Willelmus’s pale face, and he
pulled up his robe to reveal a badly swollen ankle. ‘I did fall down the stairs, but not in the dark. My eyesight …’

  ‘He is going blind,’ said Bartholomew to Tulyet. ‘Etone intends to make him Girton’s parish priest soon, so that he will have to give up scribing in the hope of saving what little vision he has left.’

  ‘And I would have been miserable,’ said Willelmus softly. ‘Perhaps it is better this way.’

  Tulyet led the way to the dungeon, Willelmus walking between Michael and Sergeant Helbye, dwarfed by both. Bartholomew brought up the rear, convinced they were making a mistake. Ayce was unstable, and he could not see him or Willelmus benefiting from the confrontation.

  Ayce stood when the door to his cell was opened, mystified by the arrival of visitors, none of whom spoke as they parted to let Willelmus through. He stared in confusion at the scribe, but then recognition dawned, and his face registered a gamut of emotions – shock, horror and finally rage.

  ‘You mean to torment me by bringing my son’s killer here?’ he snarled. Bartholomew braced himself to intervene, but Tulyet grabbed his arm and held him back.

  ‘He wants to talk to you,’ explained Michael. ‘To tell you what happened.’

  ‘I already know what happened,’ shouted Ayce, fists clenched at his sides. ‘Take him away. I do not want to look at him.’

  ‘I have been living in terror of recognition every day for the past five years,’ whispered Willelmus. ‘I rarely leave my priory …’

  ‘I do not care,’ yelled Ayce. ‘You may be a friar now, but you are still a killer.’

  ‘Wait, Matt!’ hissed Tulyet, when the physician tried a second time to reach for the scribe. ‘The sooner Willelmus says his piece, the sooner we can have the information he—’

  ‘John deserved to die!’ screamed Willelmus suddenly, lunging forward. ‘He was a mindless, bullying, self-serving brute. I could have lived happily here, were it not for your bitter ramblings. The pair of you destroyed my life.’

  Bartholomew fought free of Tulyet’s restraining grip, but it was too late. Willelmus had a knife, and had thrust it into Ayce’s chest before the astonished onlookers could stop him. Helbye reacted instinctively. His sword flashed and Willelmus dropped to the ground, even as Tulyet yelled for him to stop. Bartholomew shoved past the sergeant, and went to kneel next to Ayce – he did not need to examine Willelmus to know that he was beyond help.

  ‘You see?’ Ayce whispered weakly. ‘Hildersham was a killer, and felt no remorse. He would have claimed benefit of clergy a second time, had your soldier not acted.’

  ‘He spent his life drawing your son’s initials in books,’ said Bartholomew, confused and uncertain. ‘And chickens. He said it was to honour John’s memory.’

  ‘I doubt his motives were pure,’ breathed Ayce. ‘Still, at least fear of exposure seems to have tainted the freedom he should never have had. Some justice was served, at least.’

  ‘This should not have happened.’ Bartholomew tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound in Ayce’s chest, but it was hopeless.

  ‘You were kind to me, so I shall tell you something,’ whispered Ayce, almost inaudible. ‘You should look to your own house if you want to identify the raiders. Ayera was with us.’

  It was not long before his laboured breathing faltered into silence. Bartholomew stood, sickened and angry by what had been allowed to happen.

  ‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Tulyet helplessly. ‘I thought the danger would come from Ayce, and it never occurred to me to search Willelmus for weapons. But why did he do it? Surely, only a fool or a madman would commit murder in front of the Sheriff?’

  ‘Because he had nothing to lose,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly. ‘His days at the scriptorium were numbered because of his failing eyesight, and Prior Etone intended to send him to Girton. But who lives in Girton? The Ayce family.’

  ‘I feel as though I have been used,’ said Tulyet in distaste. ‘By Willelmus and by Ayce – two men who would rather their blood was on my hands than face what their own futures held.’

  ‘Willelmus pretended to be meek, but he was anything but,’ said Helbye in the silence that followed. ‘Some of the lads were fooling about the other day, teasing him, and he grabbed a sword and drove them back like a lion. It is why I did not hesitate when I saw he had a dagger.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Tulyet tiredly. ‘He might have turned on us after dispatching Ayce. Unfortunately, we are now deprived of two men who had valuable information.’

  ‘You can find the name of the juror from court records,’ said Bartholomew. He was thoughtful. ‘However, I suspect the man who really terrified him into a swoon was Ayce. In other words, he fainted from shock when he saw his victim’s father.’

  ‘What did Ayce tell you as he breathed his last?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I tried to listen, but his voice was too low.’

  ‘It was not … he was difficult to hear,’ mumbled Bartholomew. He was not good at lying.

  ‘Tell me,’ ordered Tulyet sharply. ‘It is no time for games.’

  ‘He claimed Ayera was among the raiders,’ replied Bartholomew unhappily, supposing Tulyet had a right to know, although his stomach twisted with guilt and shame as the words came out.

  ‘Ayera?’ echoed Tulyet. ‘He must be mistaken!’

  ‘Of course he was,’ agreed Michael smoothly. ‘And in the interests of harmony between town and University, I recommend that Matt and I look into the matter, Dick. Not you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Tulyet, after a brief moment of reflection. ‘But will you send Cynric with news of what you discover? Whatever it may be? The moment you know it?’

  ‘As fast as he can run,’ agreed Michael.

  ‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael hurried back to the College to confront Ayera. ‘I tried to dissemble, but Dick saw straight through me.’

  ‘It is not you who should be apologising,’ said Michael grimly. ‘It is Ayera. Thank God we have a Sheriff who appreciates the importance of good relations. Any other secular official would have raced to directly Michaelhouse and made an arrest. I am still furious with him over the rumour he started, but his prudence has gone some way to mollifying me.’

  ‘Our task will not be easy or pleasant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Gyseburne …’

  ‘Gyseburne what?’ demanded Michael, when Bartholomew trailed off.

  ‘Gyseburne mentioned several men poisoned in Langelee’s house in York – by Ayera’s cook. They died from eating lily of the valley, which is one of Ayera’s favourite flowers.’

  ‘Ayera likes flowers?’ asked Michael doubtfully.

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Toxic ones. And they grow in Newe Inn’s garden, by the pond.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘What are you saying now? That Ayera killed those four scholars? And that Langelee may have helped him, because they have poisoned people together in the past?’

  ‘We now have three witnesses – Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce – who claim that Ayera is involved with the raiders, and Langelee was attacked in Newe Inn, which is where a lot of those particular flowers are growing.’

  Michael’s eyes were enormous saucers in his plump face. ‘Lord, Matt!’

  ‘But Gyseburne does not like Ayera,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of ways to exonerate his colleagues despite the evidence that was beginning to build against them. ‘He says he has been afraid of him ever since the incident in York, and I imagine he will be delighted if Ayera is forced to leave the town. Thus he has good reason to twist the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ nodded Michael. ‘Gyseburne is a sly, selfish fellow with a penchant for the wine barrel. He might well lie to incriminate a man who unsettles him.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether it was worse to believe ill of Ayera or Gyseburne, and uncomfortably, it occurred to him that both could not emerge well from the affair.

  ‘No one else knows our suspicion that Northwood and the others were poisoned,’ he went on. ‘W
ell, I mentioned it to Julitta, but everyone else seems convinced that the Devil is responsible.’

  ‘Or God,’ agreed Michael. ‘But what is your point? That Ayera suggested lily of the valley as the culprit, and so incriminated himself by knowing the real cause of death?’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

  ‘Then we had better hurry,’ said Michael grimly, when Bartholomew began to drag his feet.

  But Ayera was not home when they arrived, and none of the other Fellows knew where he had gone. Langelee was missing, too, and although it was not unusual for the Master to disappear of an evening – he had many friends, and often went out when work was finished for the day – his absence that night was worrying.

  ‘We need to find them,’ said Bartholomew, standing in the conclave and looking around helplessly. Suttone and William were sharing a plate of cakes, and Clippesby was playing with the College cat – back in favour now the rat had deemed places with libraries too dangerous.

  ‘I know, but they might be anywhere,’ said Michael, exasperated.

  There was a flurry of Gilbertine habit and perfumed accessories as Thelnetham arrived. He flopped into a chair, and waved an imperious hand to say that Clippesby should bring him some wine. It was on the tip of Bartholomew’s tongue to tell him to fetch it himself, but Clippesby shot him a warning glance. The Dominican hated discord, and the look said that pandering to Thelnetham’s supercilious manners was a small price to pay for peace.

  ‘Have you seen Ayera or Langelee?’ Michael demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Thelnetham, fanning himself with a beringed hand. ‘I passed them when I—’

  ‘Where were they going?’ interrupted Michael urgently.

  Thelnetham frowned. ‘Why? What has Langelee done now? I have always said that he is not the kind of man who should be Master of a College, so it does not surprise me that—’

  ‘Where were they going?’ repeated Michael angrily.

  ‘To visit the White Friars,’ replied Thelnetham. He made a moue of distaste. ‘That particular priory is not a place I would set foot in, because Riborowe and Jorz are hardly conducive company. Of course, our Master is not very particular about—’