‘You know what he is like,’ said William apologetically. ‘I tried to tell him it would be safer to come home, but he would not listen. And I was too weary to reason with him.’
They attended their daily devotions, which went on longer than usual because Suttone was officiating and he was inclined to be wordy – and there was no Langelee to hurry him along with impatient sighs and meaningful glares. When the ceremony was finally over, Cynric was waiting to tell Bartholomew that Holm had visited the wounded men in the castle, and had meddled with their dressings. Several were now in pain.
Bartholomew strode there quickly, aware that the streets were busier than they had been the previous day. The atmosphere was curious – a mixture of fear and unease from those who had possessions to lose if the raid did occur; and happy expectancy from those with nothing, who were looking forward to the celebrations that had been so long in the planning.
Determined to have the pennies folk had been hoarding for the occasion before anything went wrong, the Guild of Corpus Christi had decided to start the festivities early. Bakers’ ovens were going full blast, ale was being sold in the churchyards, portable stalls were open to sell trinkets, and entertainers were ready with their miracle plays. The taverns were open, too, and there was a maypole near the Round Church where a band of musicians filled the air with a lively jig.
‘It was not his fault,’ said a pale Julitta, when Bartholomew arrived at the castle and regarded Holm’s handiwork with dismay. ‘He was trying to help.’
‘She is an angel,’ murmured Tulyet in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘She visits my men every day, and they rally when they see her. It is a pity her fiancé is rather less adept with the sick.’
Bartholomew unbound the dressings, appalled by the amount of ‘healing balm’ Holm had slathered on the wounds. It smelled rank, and took him some time to rinse off. Julitta helped, but said little, and he saw she was distressed by the patients’ suffering. He recalled Michael saying she would be a suspect if Browne transpired to be dead, and wondered how the monk could think ill of such a dignified, compassionate woman.
‘He did it last night,’ she said, after a while.
Bartholomew had been enjoying her proximity and the soft touch of her hands when their fingers met. Idly, it occurred to him that he had not visited his widow since meeting Julitta, and was surprised to discover that he had not thought of her once. The realisation made him ashamed, and he supposed he would have to go to her and explain his recent neglect, although he did not know what he could say: he could hardly inform her that his mind had been full of another man’s bride.
‘Who did what last night?’ he asked, wondering whether his reverie meant that he had missed part of a discussion.
‘My fiancé – he came to minister to the wounded. I was worried when some of the men said their wounds were throbbing afterwards, so I came early this morning, to see how they were. I sent for him when two seemed feverish, but he was out. So I summoned you instead.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Bartholomew assured her.
‘Holm will not touch them again,’ vowed Tulyet, when she had gone to fetch clean water. ‘He is banned from now on. Julitta is a fool for him – he does not deserve her.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, watching her stop to exchange words with Robin. Agatha’s nephew was in pain, but her approach made him smile, which said a good deal about the place she had claimed in his heart. In fact, Bartholomew was sure her nursing had made a difference between life and death for some of the wounded, and he was grateful to her for it.
‘My wife thinks I should tell her what she is marrying,’ Tulyet went on. ‘But I doubt she would listen to me. Even her sister cannot make her open her eyes.’
‘It is worth a try,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is worth a try.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘Although you must remember that her father is a very powerful and decisive man, yet Julitta can wind him around her little finger. She is not a submissive nonentity, but an extremely intelligent, capable and determined young woman.’
‘Even more reason for her not to wed Holm, then,’ said Bartholomew.
CHAPTER 11
It was evening by the time Bartholomew had finished at the castle, and he left to find Cynric waiting with a message that Isnard needed to see him. The bargeman had taken full advantage of the Guild of Corpus Christi’s decision to celebrate early, and had managed to knock himself senseless as he had tottered drunkenly along the towpath.
‘The riverfolk found me and brought me home,’ he explained feebly.
Bartholomew frowned when he saw the painful-looking lump on the back of Isnard’s skull. ‘How did you say this happened?’
‘I tripped,’ explained Isnard. ‘One moment I was walking along, thinking about Holm’s five-mark bet with you, and the next thing I knew was Torvin looming over me.’
‘It is hard to bang the back of your head when walking forward. I suspect you were struck from behind.’
‘The bastard!’ exclaimed Isnard in sudden indignation. ‘He smiled and simpered at me so prettily, too, the Judas!’
‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, applying a poultice to the bump and indicating that Isnard should lie back. He decided to fetch Valence to sit with him, because the blow had been vicious.
‘Frevill,’ replied Isnard. ‘The one who is the carpenter, working at Newe Inn.’
‘Why would he hit you?’
Isnard frowned. ‘I cannot recall now. Perhaps accusations were made … but no, it will not come. The clout he gave me must have knocked it clean out of my head.’
Or the copious quantities of ale he had consumed had addled his wits, Bartholomew thought uncharitably. He left the bargeman and walked back to Michaelhouse, where his students had finished reading the texts he had set them, and were about to escape.
‘When was the last time you heard Nicholas’s Antidotarium?’ he asked, raising his hand to stop them. One or two regarded him with expressions that verged on the murderous, although the bulk merely sighed and looked resigned.
Valence brightened, though, seeing an avenue of escape. ‘We consulted it this week, when you mentioned poisoning by lily of the valley.’
‘Consulting is not the same as reading,’ said Bartholomew, and set them a section that he could manage easily in an hour, blithely unaware that it would take them considerably longer.
They slouched back to the hall with faces like thunder, while Valence danced towards the gate, delighted to be granted a reprieve in the guise of monitoring Isnard. Then Michael approached, grey with fatigue and scowling.
‘Where have you been all day? I have been racing all over the town like a bluebottle, trying to investigate murder and find our errant colleagues. It would have been good to have had your help.’
‘Shall we resume our hunt for Ayera and Langelee tonight, Brother?’ asked William, coming to join them before Bartholomew could reply. The other Fellows – except Clippesby – were at his heels. ‘Thelnetham has offered to stay here and supervise our students, if you think we should.’
‘Our lads should not be allowed out this evening,’ explained Thelnetham. ‘Far too much ale has been swallowed by the town’s rowdier elements, and the streets do not feel safe.’
‘I agree,’ said Suttone. ‘So I shall stay in, too, while the rest of you find Langelee and Ayera. I am not very good at fighting, and I am exhausted anyway, from exploring brothels all last night.’
William sniggered, and Bartholomew supposed the Carmelite did look rather the worse for wear, although a gleam in his eye said the experience had not been altogether unpleasant. Despite his habit, Suttone liked the company of ladies.
‘I do not want anyone out tonight,’ said Michael. ‘Servants, students or Fellows. Langelee and Ayera will just have to fend for themselves.’
‘We shall keep everyone in,’ promised William. ‘How long will it be for, do you think? Until after Corpus Christi? Or shall we wait until the next raid is finished bef
ore venturing out?’
‘The robbers may not come again,’ said Suttone, although with scant conviction.
‘They will,’ countered William. ‘The only question is when. Personally, I think it will be tomorrow night, when everyone has had too much to drink – for then we will struggle to mount any form of defence.’
‘No,’ countered Thelnetham, unwilling to let anything uttered by the Franciscan pass unchallenged. ‘It will be during the pageant or the opening of the library.’
‘In daylight?’ scoffed William. ‘I do not think so!’
‘These men are professional and ruthless,’ argued Thelnetham. ‘They have taken care to hide their faces thus far, but they may decide that anonymity will not matter once they have fired the town and slaughtered all its inhabitants. They will launch their assault during the ceremonies, because that is when they are least expected – and when they will have the element of surprise.’
‘But they have already lost it,’ objected William. ‘We all know they are coming.’
‘Yes, but we do not know exactly when,’ persisted Thelnetham. ‘And during the festivities, all the soldiers and beadles will be struggling to monitor the crowds, so they will be too busy to notice anything else. The robbers will use this as a diversion to launch their assault.’
‘Our beadles will certainly be distracted if the Common Library’s opponents use these murders as an excuse to disrupt the opening ceremony,’ said Suttone soberly. ‘Its supporters will retaliate, and the resulting fracas will involve every member of the University.’
Michael groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘That means I have one night to find our killer, because Suttone is right: a brawl will provide exactly the “diversion” these villains want.’
‘Cancel the opening,’ said William. ‘Indeed, cancel the library. It never was a sensible idea.’
‘I wish I could,’ sighed Michael. ‘But Chancellor Tynkell has made promises that are difficult to break, and wealthy townsmen will never give us anything again if we spoil Dunning’s day.’
‘That may not matter,’ warned William, ‘if we have no University left to receive gifts.’
Michael groaned again. ‘Thank God Tynkell is retiring soon, because I cannot work with a Chancellor who meddles. Shame on him and his desire to make a name for himself!’
‘The name he makes will not be a good one if his library opens in a welter of blood,’ said William ghoulishly. ‘But do not worry about Michaelhouse, Brother. We Fellows will keep it safe.’
‘And do not look so glum,’ added Suttone kindly. ‘You will catch your villain. No sly killer will best our intrepid Senior Proctor.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this whole affair.’
Because Michael was silent as they left the College, Bartholomew confided his suspicions about Holm, thinking it would do no harm to review the evidence against the surgeon.
‘You want Holm to be guilty, because you have taken a fancy to Julitta,’ said Michael acidly. ‘And you do not want him to wed her.’
‘You are right: I do not want her life spoiled by a man who only wants to inherit her father’s money,’ Bartholomew snapped back. ‘However, it has nothing to do with my—’
‘Do not dissemble with me. However, while I appreciate that Holm as the villain will please you – especially as you will save five marks if he is hanged – the fact is that there is no proof.’
‘Of course there is proof,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘He is not a real surgeon for a start, yet he still wanders the town at night on the pretext of seeing patients. It must be because he is spying for the invaders. Moreover, he arrived on Easter Day, which is when the raiders claimed their first victim. And he lies about his whereabouts.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.
‘Dunning wanted help with reorganising the pageant after the attack on the castle, but Holm excused himself on the grounds that he would be with the injured. At the time, I assumed it was simple indolence, but now I wonder if he had another motive.’
‘Not necessarily. He is lazy – he was napping yesterday when we visited in the middle of the day, so he probably lied to secure himself a good night’s sleep. Or a frolic with Browne.’
‘Then what about the fact that Browne is missing? Perhaps Browne discovered Holm’s guilt, and was killed to ensure the secret was shared with no one else.’
‘That is not proof, Matt. It is rank supposition without a shred of evidence.’
‘He pestered me and the other physicians for the wildfire formula,’ Bartholomew went on, determined to make Michael see his point of view. ‘He started the moment he found out what we had done, and was talking about it just before I was first ambushed. Perhaps he was among the three who threatened to—’
‘Again, there is no proof.’
‘The singers,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He hired singers to entertain Walkelate and his people on the night that Northwood, the Londons and Vale died. Obviously, he did it to mask any noise he might make while he poisoned them.’
Michael shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Julitta must really have captured your heart! It is unlike you to draw wild conclusions from such scant evidence.’
Bartholomew did not respond, reluctantly conceding that perhaps his dislike of Holm did stem from his admiration for Julitta, and it was jealousy speaking. Yet he knew, with every fibre of his being, that there was something amiss with the surgeon, something dark and unpleasant.
‘We had better go to Cholles Lane again,’ said Michael. ‘The more I think about it, the more I feel that place holds the key to unravelling our mysteries.’
‘Yes – it is where Holm lives,’ pounced Bartholomew.
This time it was Michael’s turn not to reply. They met Clippesby as they turned the corner. The Dominican looked fretful, and his habit was stained with wet mud.
‘Frevill,’ he said without preamble. ‘As we could not find Langelee or Ayera, I decided to watch for reconnoitring raiders instead. The water voles invited me to hide near their homes.’
‘They should not have done,’ said Bartholomew, worried for him. ‘These robbers are dangerous men.’
‘Very,’ agreed Clippesby soberly. ‘They even bested Dame Pelagia, although you helped her escape. I was glad, because the voles and I could not have done it.’
‘What is this?’ asked Michael, alarmed.
Bartholomew waved him quiet. ‘What did you hear? What is this about Frevill?’
‘He is one of the raiders,’ replied Clippesby. ‘The voles saw his face quite clearly. He was talking to several other armed men here, in Cholles Lane, and he was issuing them with orders.’
‘Which Frevill?’ asked Michael. ‘The Master of the Guild of Corpus Christi, who has been spiriting his family and valuables out of harm’s way these past two days? Perhaps because he knows for a fact what is about to befall his town?’
‘No, his carpenter kinsman, who works at the Common Library,’ replied Clippesby.
‘I imagine he would be too weary for such antics,’ said Michael dismissively, beginning to walk away. ‘Walkelate has been driving his artisans very hard.’
‘Wait!’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Isnard claimed Frevill hit him earlier, and knocked him out of his wits.’
‘Why would Frevill do that?’ asked Michael, bemused.
Bartholomew thought fast. ‘Isnard must have seen or heard something he should not have done. Unfortunately, he was too drunk to make sense of it. The blow was a vicious one, and I think Frevill meant to kill him – which means he must have wanted Isnard silenced very badly.’
‘Quite,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘Isnard is lucky his throat was not cut, too, like poor Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman.’
Michael was silent for a moment, thinking, then he turned to Clippesby. ‘Tell the Sheriff what you saw. But please do it properly: say what you witnessed, and leave the water voles out of it.’
‘Ye
s, Brother.’ Clippesby sped away.
Michael looked down Cholles Lane. ‘I was right about this place, Matt. There is something untoward unfolding here.’
As the evening shadows lengthened, Bartholomew and Michael walked up the library stairs to find Walkelate sitting by the cista. He was alone, and the place felt oddly abandoned without craftsmen and apprentices bustling about. Even Aristotle, gazing down from his lofty perch, seemed forlorn.
‘The work is finished at last,’ Walkelate said softly. ‘Although Kente’s death has cast a pall over it, and I shall not enjoy the opening ceremony without him at my side.’
‘I am afraid I have more bad news for you,’ said Michael. ‘We have just learned that Frevill has been consorting with the raiders.’
Walkelate gave a pained smile. ‘I appreciate your efforts at humour, Brother, but I am not in the mood. And that is not a particularly amusing joke, anyway. Frevill is—’
‘It is no joke,’ said Michael. ‘We have a reliable … we have a witness. Where is Frevill?’
Walkelate’s kindly face crumpled into a mask of dismay. ‘But he cannot be involved with the robbers! He has been toiling with me these last six weeks, and has had no time to—’
‘You do not work at night.’ Michael interrupted a second time. ‘Which is when this gang meets local traitors, who guide them around the town, pointing out our weaknesses.’
‘No! I will not believe this!’ Walkelate turned at the sound of feet on the stairs. ‘Dunning! Thank God! Brother Michael is saying some terrible things about Frevill. Please stop him.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Dunning, when Michael had repeated his accusations. ‘You have been working too hard, Brother, and it has addled your wits.’
‘He is right,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘Perhaps a rest will—’
‘We cannot rest,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Our scholars are still bitterly divided over this wretched library, and there will be trouble unless we can pre-empt it.’
‘There will be no trouble,’ stated Dunning impatiently. ‘When your scholars see this fine building, even its most fervent detractors will change their minds. It will be a fabulous success, and Walkelate and I will be hailed as visionaries for seeing it through.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 33