‘There is nothing wrong with Riborowe and Jorz,’ declared Suttone, rallying to the defence of his Carmelite brethren. Then he frowned. ‘But Langelee never ventures into our friary. He says we are too religious for his taste.’
‘He wanted some ink from its scriptorium,’ elaborated Thelnetham. ‘Apparently, they have invented a new kind, which is said to dry faster than the stuff Weasenham sells.’
‘It is red, too,’ put in Clippesby. ‘And Master Langelee likes red.’
‘Probably because it looks like blood,’ said Thelnetham with haughty contempt. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier.’
‘He does like red pigments,’ agreed Suttone. ‘Agatha complained to me not an hour ago that he had just handed her a tabard that was drenched in the stuff.’
He and Thelnetham began a discussion about annoying stains, but Bartholomew did not wait to hear it. He strode quickly through the hall and clattered down the stairs to the yard, aware of Michael behind him, especially once he started along Milne Street and the monk began to pant.
‘I still do not believe it,’ he said, his mind a whirl of confusion. ‘I cannot see Ayera or Langelee stealing the King’s taxes. Men died in that raid.’
‘“Only soldiers”.’ Michael echoed the geometrician’s chillingly callous words and Bartholomew recalled that he had been so shocked to hear them from the lips of a scholar that he had reported it to the monk. ‘Men who are expendable in battle.’
Bartholomew began to move faster, leaving Michael behind. When he arrived at the Carmelite Priory, he rapped hard on the gate. The doorman took his time answering, and Michael had caught up by the time the grille slid open.
‘God save us!’ the doorman muttered, crossing himself. ‘How did you know you were needed? We only discovered what happened a few moments ago. Perhaps the Corpse Examiner does have diabolical powers, and can detect the scent of cadavers.’
Bartholomew was too fraught to ask what he meant. ‘Are Langelee and Ayera here?’
The doorman grunted as he removed the heavy bar that secured the convent after sunset. He yanked open the gate and indicated they were to enter. ‘No, why?’
‘Have they left?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I have not seen them. Of course, they could have come in when I was doing my rounds.’
There was a shout, and Etone trotted towards them, all agitated hand gestures and swirling habit. ‘How did you know? We have only just discovered it ourselves.’
‘That is just what I said,’ muttered the doorman, crossing himself again.
‘How did we know about what?’ demanded Michael.
‘Come with me, Brother,’ said Etone grimly. ‘You, too, Matthew.’
They followed him to the scriptorium. The light had begun to fade, so work was finished for the day: lids were on inkpots, pens were laid in neat rows ready for the morning, and half-finished books and scrolls were locked in a chest for safekeeping. At the far end of the room was the little chamber where Jorz and Riborowe experimented. Etone beckoned them towards it.
Jorz was lying face-down in a bowl of ink. He had been sitting at a table, and there was a spoon in his right hand: he had evidently been stirring his potion when he had pitched forward. Red pigment was splattered everywhere.
Carefully, Bartholomew pulled Jorz upright. He was cool to the touch, and there was a stiffness around the jaws that suggested death had occurred some time before. The scribe’s face was stained bright scarlet, and the sight was so disturbing that Bartholomew covered it with a cloth.
‘We finished work early today, to decorate the chapel for Corpus Christi,’ Riborowe sobbed. ‘But Jorz stayed behind, because we had an experiment running.’
‘He was keen to perfect his invention,’ said Etone sadly. ‘He told me he was going to work for as long as the light allowed. I wish I had refused, then he would not have died alone.’
‘I came to see how he was getting on the moment we had finished the chapel,’ wept Riborowe. ‘But he must have had a seizure, and dropped face-down into his ink.’
‘Is that possible, Matt?’ asked Michael uncertainly.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The cause of death does appear to be drowning, and the bowl is deep enough to submerge his nose and mouth.’
‘It could happen to any of us, at any time,’ said Etone. He whispered a brief prayer.
‘Did you make any attempt to pull him out, perhaps to see whether he was still breathing?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the explosion of droplets and smears around the bowl.
‘We could see he was dead, so we did not try,’ said Etone. ‘I thought it would be more helpful if you saw him just as he was discovered.’
‘It is helpful; thank you,’ said Bartholomew, homing in on a clue that would have been lost if the body had been moved. ‘Jorz said he preferred to draw with his left hand, and was clumsy with his right. Yet he is holding the spoon in his right hand.’
‘That means nothing.’ Riborowe wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He often poured with one hand, while stirring with the other. Like most of us, he was adept with both.’
‘But there is nothing on the table for him to pour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was stirring only. And even if he was two-handed, it is natural to perform such a task with the dominant one.’
‘Why are you asking these questions?’ Etone was beginning to look alarmed. ‘Surely, you do not think someone did this to him? That he was murdered?’
‘Batayl!’ cried Riborowe immediately. ‘They do not believe we are innocent of killing Coslaye, and now Browne is missing. They think we dispatched him, too, and they killed Jorz in revenge!’
‘Batayl did not do this,’ said Michael quickly, although Bartholomew recalled that Browne had crept into the scriptorium on a previous occasion and made Jorz jump violently enough to burn himself. It was entirely possible that he had done it again, this time with fatal consequences – assuming he was still alive himself, of course.
‘I agree,’ said Etone quietly. ‘The Batayl men are unpleasant, but they are not killers.’
‘Regardless,’ said Riborowe, suddenly fearful, ‘Jorz’s death is another connected to libraries.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes.
‘I refer to the rumour that libraries are dangerous places,’ began Riborowe. ‘And—’
‘This is a scriptorium, not a library,’ interrupted Michael.
‘It is a place associated with books,’ countered Riborowe.
Etone crossed himself. ‘Perhaps God is trying to tell us something with all these accidents.’
‘Accidents?’ hissed Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I detect a human hand at work in this – and not one directed by the Almighty, either.’
‘Have you seen Langelee this evening?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or Ayera?’
‘I think I saw Langelee cross our yard earlier,’ said Etone, clearly taken aback by the question out of the blue. ‘But I may have been mistaken. Why?’
‘Because we need to speak to him,’ replied Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, not sure what to say. ‘In fact, we were looking for him when your doorman dragged us in to inspect Jorz.’
‘Well, if he appears, we shall pass the word that you want him,’ offered Etone agreeably.
Bartholomew helped two lay-brothers load Jorz on to a bier, to be carried to the chapel. Then, while Riborowe organised vigils and prayers for his dead friend’s soul, Etone accompanied the Michaelhouse men to the gate.
‘I suspect Jorz’s seizure was induced by the noxious substances he put in his ink,’ the Prior confided as they walked. ‘Some of them reeked, but he always resisted my efforts to encourage him into the fresh air. Northwood used to say the same, but Jorz never listened.’
‘Well, Matt?’ demanded Michael, once he and Bartholomew were outside and alone again. It was almost dark. ‘What do you really think?’
‘That Etone may be right: Jorz was using red lead in his ink, and that is very toxic. Perhaps he
did faint from lack of clean air and toppled forward to drown. Or perhaps someone crept up behind him, and held his head in the basin until he stopped breathing. If the latter is true, whoever it was will be splattered with red ink – you saw the mess on the table.’
Michael was worried. ‘Suttone said that Langelee gave Agatha some ink-stained clothes to wash this evening. And Etone thought he saw him in the friary earlier. We must find him, and demand to know what is going on.’
‘Find him where?’ asked Bartholomew, equally anxious. ‘He might be anywhere. I will set Cynric to track him down, but he may not even be in the town.’
‘You mean he might have gone with Ayera to meet the raiders in the Fens?’
‘It is possible. Regardless, I have a terrible feeling that he is in danger – that Ayera has enmeshed him in something he does not fully understand and that may prove fatal to him. Perhaps Ayera killed Jorz, and Langelee tried to stop him. That would explain the inky clothes.’
‘Yes, it would.’ But Michael did not look convinced.
‘We are out of our depth here, Brother. Where is Dame Pelagia? We need her help.’
Michael winced. ‘Unfortunately, Browne, Langelee and Ayera are not the only ones who have disappeared. I cannot find my grandmother, either.’
Knowing it would be impossible to locate Langelee and Ayera on their own, Michael reluctantly enlisted the help of the other Fellows. He silenced their objections by furnishing a terse account of what Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce had claimed, adding that Ayera had not been the only Michaelhouse man to roam the town at odd hours, because the Master had been doing it, too.
‘I knew it!’ hissed Thelnetham, when the monk had finished. ‘I knew the villain in that pair would not lie dormant for long. And now they harm the rest of us by association.’
‘Let us not jump to conclusions,’ said Father William warningly. ‘Nothing has been proven.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘Ayera has been meeting dangerous men in dark places for the last two months or so, because the rat told me, but there will be an innocent explanation.’
Michael rounded on him. ‘What have you seen, exactly.’
Clippesby looked more lunatic than ever that evening, with spiky hair and wild eyes. ‘The rat saw robbers prowling, and Ayera was with them. But when I told the Sheriff, he said she was mistaken, because his patrols would have seen them, too. However, it was easy for the raiders to avoid his officers, because they knew which routes they would take. I heard them say so.’
‘Willelmus,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘He overheard Dick’s plans and passed them on.’
‘I wish I was in a normal College,’ muttered Thelnetham. ‘But no, I am at Michaelhouse, whose Fellows chat to vermin and consort with thieves. What did I do to deserve this?’
‘Well, you dress like a woman, for a start,’ replied William, who did not understand the concept of a rhetorical question. ‘And God does not like it. However, you had better be discreet with what you have learned about the Master and Ayera tonight. If their antics become public, it will signal the end of our College.’
‘Oh, I shall be discreet,’ said Thelnetham bitterly. ‘I have my own reputation to think of. Where do you want us to look for these rogues, Brother? And what shall we do if we find them?’
‘Bring them home,’ replied Michael. ‘I shall be waiting.’
‘What if they decline to come?’ asked Suttone anxiously. ‘I shall point out that the game is up, and that their only recourse is to return to Michaelhouse, but what if they refuse? We can hardly remove them by force. They are warriors!’
‘Fetch me, so I can do the explaining.’ Michael began to assign tasks. ‘William will look in the taverns, Suttone will explore the brothels—’
‘Really?’ asked Suttone, brightening. ‘Perhaps this will not be such a terrible night after all.’
‘Matt can visit those hostels where Langelee has friends, Thelnetham will make enquiries in the Colleges, and Clippesby will take the convents. Now go – and remember that no one must know why we are looking, or we shall be ruined for certain.’
It was a long and unrewarding night. Langelee was a friendly soul, with many acquaintances, and Bartholomew trudged from hostel to hostel, knocking on doors if lamps burned within, and listening outside when the buildings were in darkness. He persisted for hours, ignoring the rational voice at the back of his mind that told him he was wasting his time.
Tulyet’s soldiers and Michael’s beadles were out in force, and it was not easy to convince them that he was visiting patients every time they met. Eventually, he hid in doorways or crouched behind rubbish heaps when he heard them coming, and was alarmed when he discovered how easy it was to elude them. No wonder the raiders had been able to reconnoitre so efficiently!
It was during the darkest part of the short summer night that he ran into trouble. He had just endured a fruitless foray to Maud’s Hostel, an establishment favoured by wealthy men of low intelligence – Langelee had always felt at home there – when he saw shadows moving at the end of the street. They were clad in short cloaks, and all wore hoods to conceal their faces. He froze, then eased forward, trying to remember Cynric’s lessons about stealth as he aimed to get close enough to eavesdrop. They were speaking French.
‘… for tonight,’ one was saying. ‘And then she will tell us all we need to know.’
‘I doubt it,’ another replied with conviction. His voice was familiar, but Bartholomew could not place it. ‘Do you not know who she is?’
‘Just some crone who will have her throat cut once we have drained her of information,’ said the first. ‘But it is your fault she overheard us talking. I told you that someone was watching, and you should have heeded me.’
‘It was—’ The second man broke off suddenly. ‘She is escaping! Stop her!’
A small shape scuttled from the base of a wall, and Bartholomew thought he could make out a pile of discarded ropes. However, while Dame Pelagia was remarkably spry for a woman of her age, she was no match for men in their prime. He saw they were going to catch her again, and reacted instinctively, hauling a knife from his bag and racing forward. Too late, it occurred to him that he was no match for so many villains, either.
‘Here they are!’ he yelled over his shoulder to nonexistent help. ‘We can take them now!’
He did not know whether he was more relieved or surprised when the invaders promptly melted away. He continued shouting, and it was not long before the racket drew Tulyet’s guards. Shakily, he jabbed a finger in the direction the robbers had taken, although he doubted they would be caught now. He leaned against a wall, his legs like jelly once the danger was over.
‘That was brave,’ said Pelagia, materialising at his side and making him jump. ‘They would have caught me again, which would not have been pleasant.’
‘Were you spying on them?’ he asked, trying to control the unsteadiness in his voice.
‘Of course. Unfortunately, they said nothing of value, and I still do not know their identities, their plans or the whereabouts of their camp. I was careless in my eagerness to learn, and I tripped over some rubbish. I must be getting old.’
‘What will you do now?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Go to bed.’ Despite her efforts to conceal it, he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. ‘They will have left the town by now, so there is no point in my staying out any longer.’
‘Michael was worried when he could not find you earlier.’
‘He is a dear boy, but he need not concern himself. Will you give him a message? Tell him that I am sure there will be another raid during Corpus Christi, and that the tales claiming that their previous failure means they are too frightened to try again are a nonsense.’
‘I do not suppose you have seen Langelee this evening, have you?’ asked Bartholomew.
Pelagia shook her head. ‘But I imagine he is tucked up in bed with someone else’s wife.’
Bartholomew escorted her to the inn
where she was staying, then turned towards Michaelhouse. He had done all he could that night.
The other Fellows had also decided that the hunt for Langelee and Ayera was a waste of time, and most had retired to their rooms by the time Bartholomew arrived home. Michael was in the hall, the bestiary from Bene’t College open in front of him. Rolee’s blood had been meticulously scoured off it.
‘I shall stay here, just in case Ayera and Langelee decide to return,’ he said tiredly. ‘But you should rest. One of us should be alert tomorrow, because it is the day before Corpus Christi, and if we do not have answers then, we shall have trouble for certain.’
‘I think we shall have it anyway,’ said Bartholomew worriedly. ‘Solving the murders will make no difference one way or the other now.’
‘I disagree. The armed raiders may still attack, but presenting our scholars with a culprit for these suspicious deaths will soothe troubled waters. Ergo, it is imperative that we succeed. But I cannot stop thinking about Jorz. Etone may be right: perhaps he did have a seizure.’
‘Perhaps, but he was a healthy man with no history of them. Moreover, it is suspicious that he should die now, after what happened to Rolee, Teversham, Sawtre and Kente. All look like mishaps, but there are too many of them to be innocent.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael sombrely. ‘But rest now, Matt, or you will be no good to me tomorrow.’
Bartholomew fell into a restless sleep, and was awake long before the bell chimed for mass the following morning, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the jumble of facts he had accumulated. He kept coming back to Holm, whom he had caught out in several lies and who was certainly ruthless enough to kill to suit himself. He tried to be objective, analysing the information from different angles, but the surgeon seemed to be the guilty party whichever way he viewed it.
Langelee and Ayera were still missing when the scholars assembled to process to the church, and so was Clippesby. The Dominican had not been seen since he had given up his trawl of the convents the previous night, when he had told William that he was going to visit some bats.
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 32