Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Read online

  ‘Or to us,’ retorted Etone coolly.

  ‘Well, it seems he did both,’ said Tynkell, when Coslaye was too angry to form coherent words and could only splutter with rage, hopping from foot to foot as he did so. He held up a document. ‘Because I have the deed of ownership here. Dunning gave it to me this morning, and if the vote goes as he hopes, Newe Inn will become the Common Library with immediate effect. He would like an official opening at the Feast of Corpus Christi.’

  ‘Well, he will not have it,’ roared Teversham, beside himself with indignation. ‘Because only fools will favour such a scheme, and my fellow Regents will have more sense than to—’

  The rest of his statement was lost amid cheers from those who opposed the ‘grace’ to found a Common Library, and catcalls from those who supported it.

  ‘I suggest we move directly to the vote,’ said Michael, once he had quelled the uproar a third time. ‘It is obvious that we have all made up our minds, so further discussion is pointless. All those who oppose the grace will move to the south aisle.’

  There was an immediate stampede that included Teversham and Coslaye. They stood in a tight, belligerent huddle, hooting and jeering at those who remained, so that the ancient building rang with feisty voices.

  ‘Come over here,’ hollered Coslaye to the London brothers, his stentorian tones carrying through the din. ‘You are members of Batayl, so I order you to stand with us. It-—’

  ‘And those who support the grace will move to the north,’ boomed Michael.

  The remaining Regents hurried to where he pointed, and when the shuffle was complete, it was clear that the result was going to be close. Tense and heated, they continued to harangue each other as Michael and Tynkell counted heads. And then counted them again.

  ‘The grace is carried by three votes,’ announced Tynkell at last.

  There was a cheer from the north and a roar of disappointment from the south. The two sides converged in a fury of bawling voices and violently wagging fingers. And then something dark sailed through the air. It was a book with wooden covers, and its corner struck Coslaye hard on the side of his head. The Principal of Batayl Hostel dropped to the floor and lay still.

  ‘Who threw that?’ demanded Michael, in the shocked hush that followed.

  There was silence. The University’s medical men – from both sides of the debate – hurried to the stricken man’s side, but their faces were grim as they inspected the wound.

  ‘He is bleeding inside his skull,’ said one. ‘I doubt he will survive. He has been murdered!’

  CHAPTER 1

  Cambridge, June 1358

  The corpse was on its back, eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above, arms flung out to the sides and legs dangling in the river. It was a youth with fair curls, a shabby tunic that had once been stylish, and ink on his fingers. It was a wicked shame, thought Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, that his life had been cut so brutally short.

  ‘You can see why I called you,’ said Richard Tulyet. He was Cambridge’s Sheriff, a slightly built man, whose wispy beard and boyish looks led criminals to underestimate him; they never made the same mistake twice. ‘His clothes and the stains on his hands …’

  ‘You think he is a scholar,’ surmised Brother Michael, leaning on Bartholomew’s shoulder to peer down at the body. As Senior Proctor, it was his duty to determine whether the dead boy was a member of the University, and if so, to investigate what had happened. ‘I do not recognise him.’

  ‘I do,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His name is Adam, and he has just started to work for the University stationer. I treated him for a summer ague a few days ago.’

  ‘Did he mention any enemies?’ Michael shuddered. ‘His throat has been cut from ear to ear, so he clearly did something to annoy someone.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Tulyet’s expression was sober. ‘He is the third person to have been found with a slashed throat near the river over the last eight weeks or so.’

  Bartholomew was horrified. ‘There is a killer on the loose? Who are his other victims?’

  ‘A beggar whose name no one knows, and one of my night-watchmen,’ replied the Sheriff.

  ‘I hope there is no trouble brewing between your town and our University,’ said Michael uneasily. ‘We have been living in comparative harmony for months now, and it occurred to me only yesterday that we are overdue for a spat.’

  ‘Not on our part,’ averred Tulyet. ‘Now that summer is here at last, we are more interested in tending our crops than in quarrelling with you – none of us want another winter of crippling shortages, such as we had last year. However, your scholars have been rather warlike of late.’

  ‘Over the Common Library,’ said Bartholomew, nodding. ‘The grace to establish it passed by a very slim margin, and the losers are still resentful. It has caused a bitter rift.’

  ‘A rift that is likely to widen even further today,’ predicted Michael gloomily. ‘The Chancellor has called another Convocation of Regents because we need to elect a new Junior Proctor, but the occasion will be used to reignite the library trouble, I am sure.’

  ‘Another Junior Proctor?’ asked Tulyet. ‘But that makes three this year alone, Brother! What happened to your last deputy?’

  ‘He resigned,’ replied the monk shortly. ‘Just because I told him to put down a quarrel between Maud’s Hostel and Bene’t College. The spat was over that wretched library, of course.’

  ‘It was a pitched battle, not a spat,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it involved weapons.’

  ‘So what?’ shrugged Michael. ‘He had ten stalwart beadles at his back, and I fail to understand why he was so reluctant to do his duty. I had the matter resolved in a few moments.’

  During his years in office, the portly Benedictine theologian had amassed considerable power in the University, and it was common knowledge that he, not the Chancellor, made all the important decisions. He was thus a force to be reckoned with, and had restored the peace with no more than a few sharp words. No Junior Proctor could expect to do likewise, however, and the last incumbent had been so appalled by the expectation that he was to wade into such a vicious mêlée of waving knives and flailing fists that he had quit on the spot.

  Unfortunately, it would not be easy to replace him. The work was poorly paid, often dangerous and had few perks. Moreover, Michael could be something of a tartar, impatient with those less intelligent than himself and intolerant of failure. No volunteers were likely to come forward at the Convocation, and the post would almost certainly remain vacant until some unsuspecting newcomer was persuaded to take it.

  ‘I heard about that fight,’ Tulyet was saying. ‘Several injuries and numerous arrests. However, Adam’s death will have nothing to do with those troubles. I believe he was killed because he, like the beggar and my guard, witnessed something he should not have done.’

  ‘Such as what?’ asked Michael, bemused.

  ‘Smuggling – a perennial problem for any town near the Fens. Unfortunately, as soon as we catch one crew, another takes its place. There is a lot of money in the business, so the perpetrators tend to be protective of their interests, and will certainly kill to defend them.’

  ‘I hope Adam’s death will not prove to be too time-consuming,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘The new library is due to open a week tomorrow – on the Feast of Corpus Christi – and I have my hands full trying to keep the peace. Not to mention Coslaye.’

  ‘Coslaye?’ queried Tulyet.

  ‘The Principal of Batayl Hostel, who was very nearly killed when someone lobbed a book during the last Convocation. Murder might not have been the culprit’s intention, but it was a wicked thing to do regardless, and he needs to be caught.’

  ‘I will find out what happened to Adam,’ offered Tulyet. ‘You have helped me often enough in the past, and I am already investigating two similar crimes. I shall bring his killer to justice.’

  Michael smiled gratefully. He and the She
riff had always enjoyed a good relationship, and there was rarely any squabbling over jurisdiction. ‘But you must be busy, too, Dick. The town celebrates this particular festival in style, so you will have pageants to organise, miracle plays to commission …’

  ‘The Guild of Corpus Christi is managing all that this year,’ replied the Sheriff. ‘The only pressing matter I have at the moment is the King’s taxes – mostly collected and counted, but still requiring a mound of documentation before they can be sent to London. It is tedious work, and at the risk of sounding callous, hunting killers is a welcome diversion.’

  ‘I hope you catch them,’ said Bartholomew, folding the corpse’s hands across its chest and closing its eyes. ‘Because Adam was little more than a child – too young to die.’

  ‘You say he was a scribe?’ asked Tulyet.

  Bartholomew nodded, recalling what the lad had told him when they had met. ‘The University stationer, John Weasenham, hired him, because he can … he could write extremely fast.’

  ‘Weasenham produces anthologies of set texts called “exemplars”,’ elaborated Michael, when Tulyet’s puzzled expression showed that he did not understand why this should be important. ‘Which students then hire. They are in constant demand, so speedy scribes are essential.’

  ‘The Carmelite Priory has a scriptorium,’ said Tulyet. ‘Perhaps the friars there will help to produce these exemplars until Adam can be replaced.’

  ‘No – the Carmelites produce fine books and illustrated manuscripts,’ explained Michael with a tolerant smile at such ignorance. ‘They are wholly different undertakings. And if you want an analogy, compare that donkey over there with your best warhorse.’

  ‘Adam wanted to join the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew, sorry the youngster had not lived to realise his ambitions. ‘He told me that writing was his life.’

  ‘Then I had better set about finding out who killed him,’ said Tulyet quietly.

  ‘And I had better break the news to Weasenham,’ added Michael reluctantly. ‘I shall do it the moment the Convocation is over.’

  Although it was not long past dawn, the sun had already burned away the early morning mist, and it promised to be a fine day. The sky was a clear, unbroken blue for the first time in weeks, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he and Michael left the riverbank. The ever-present stench of animal dung and human waste was dominant, but the sweeter scent of flowers and grass lay beneath them. Summer had arrived at last.

  The previous winter had been long and hard, and although they had seen little snow, a series of fierce frosts had claimed a number of Bartholomew’s more vulnerable patients. There had been starvation, too, because the harvest had failed, and even the alms dispensed by the convents had not been enough to save some folk from an early grave. The town had celebrated with foolish abandon when the first blossoms had appeared on the trees, relieved beyond measure at this sign that the weather was finally beginning to relinquish its icy hold.

  The quickest way to St Mary the Great from the river was via Cholles Lane, a narrow alley bounded on one side by the high wall that surrounded the Carmelite Priory, and a row of houses on the other. There were only three buildings of note. First was the shabby hostel run by Principal Coslaye, which he called Batayl; next was Newe Inn, the former tavern that was being converted into the Common Library; and the last was a pretty cottage occupied by Will Holm the surgeon, who had arrived two months before – on Easter Day – to set up practice in the town.

  ‘I see work is proceeding apace on Newe Inn,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as they walked. The sawing, hammering and chiselling had started the day after the Convocation, and its sponsor, Sir Eustace Dunning, had promised the craftsmen a handsome bonus if they finished before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Needless to say, the artisans were eager to oblige.

  Michael scowled. ‘I still cannot believe that ridiculous grace was passed. And by only three votes, too! It will mean nothing but trouble.’

  ‘No – it will mean that all our scholars will have access to texts they might otherwise never see,’ countered Bartholomew. He had voted for the proposal, much to Michael’s disgust, and while he knew he would never persuade the monk to his point of view – or vice versa – they still argued about it every time they passed Newe Inn in each other’s company.

  ‘But Newe Inn is wholly unsuitable for the purpose.’ Michael stopped to glare at it. ‘It is the wrong size, the wrong shape, and most of its windows face north. It will be too dark to read most of the time, and too cold in winter. Moreover, Batayl Hostel and the Carmelites think it should be theirs.’

  ‘It is Sir Eustace Dunning’s property. He can give it to whoever he likes.’

  ‘No good will come of it,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘And I still cannot believe that you supported its foundation. I thought I had made it clear that I was against it, and that I expected all the Regents from my own College to vote accordingly.’

  ‘A lot of good will come of it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who had resented being ordered to act against his beliefs. ‘I am tired of running all over the University every time I want to consult a text – and of hoping that its owner will deign to let me see it. A Common Library will mean they are all stored in one place, and will thus be available to everyone.’

  ‘That is idealistic claptrap! First, this collection will be open to every member of our studium generale, which means the demand on its resources will be enormous. You may never see the books you want because others will get to them first.’

  ‘But at least those in the poorer foundations will have a chance to—’

  ‘And second, there is the issue of benefactions. Our College rarely buys books, because they are too expensive – most have been bequeathed to us. But a central repository will be more attractive to donors, and they will favour it in their wills. What will become of Michaelhouse?’

  ‘We will use the Common Library.’

  ‘You are missing the point!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘I do not refer to the academic value of books, but to their actual value. We sold our spare copy of Holcot’s Postillae earlier this year, and it raised enough money to keep us in bread for a month. Ergo, they are a vital asset, and your Common Library will deprive us of it. And we are not rich as it is.’

  ‘Books are not a commodity, Brother, to be bought and sold like—’

  ‘Of course they are a commodity! Even Deynman our Librarian, who is as fanatical about his charges as a mother hen with chicks, agreed that it was right to let the Holcot go.’

  Bartholomew had no desire to debate the matter further. He changed the subject, and began to talk about the experiments he was conducting with his medical colleagues instead. They were trying to develop fuel for a lamp that would burn at a constant and steady rate, which they hoped would let them see what they were doing when patients summoned them at night.

  ‘We added myrrh yesterday,’ he said, blithely unaware that Michael was not very interested. The monk might have been, had the medici made progress occasionally, but they were no further towards their goal than they had been when the project had started some months earlier.

  ‘Your colleagues are an unprepossessing crowd,’ Michael said, brusque because the previous discussion had reminded him that he was still sulking over the fact that his closest friend had defied him at the Convocation. ‘Gyseburne’s obsession with urine is sinister; Rougham is arrogant; Meryfeld is stupid; and Vale is sly.’

  ‘And our new surgeon – Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, rather taken aback by the monk’s vehemence. ‘Do you dislike him, too?’

  ‘Yes. Although, his arrival has meant that you no longer perform those nasty techniques yourself, which is not a bad thing.’

  Bartholomew said nothing. He had saved a number of patients with surgery, but it was the domain of barber-surgeons, and virtually everyone disapproved of his unconventional talent for it. He started to change the subject a second time, but they had arrived at St Mary the Great, where the Convocati
on was about to begin.

  Bartholomew and Michael walked into the church to find it full. Chancellor Tynkell heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the monk. The election of a Junior Proctor was not a contentious piece of business, but most of those present were actually there to reiterate their opinions of the Common Library, and he knew he would be unable to keep the peace once the more rabid of the Regents began to hold forth.

  ‘I bid you all welcome,’ he said nervously to the assembly, after he had intoned a rambling and somewhat incoherent opening prayer that betrayed the depth of his unease. ‘We are here to see about the election of another Junior—’

  ‘I am here to express my displeasure about this wretched library,’ cut in Teversham hotly. His Bene’t colleagues were at his shoulder, nodding vehement agreement. ‘Work is proceeding far too fast, and it is unseemly.’

  ‘We are trying to finish by Corpus Christi,’ explained William Walkelate, the erudite, amiable architect from King’s Hall, who had been given the task of transforming Newe Inn from run-down tavern to functional library. The appointment had made him unpopular with his colleagues, however – King’s Hall was one of the project’s fiercest detractors. ‘Dunning has set his heart on—’

  ‘It is all wrong,’ snapped Teversham. ‘The wealthier foundations, such as my own, already have repositories for books, and so do the convents. We do not need another.’

  ‘But what about those scholars who are not members of rich Colleges or religious houses?’ asked Walkelate with quiet reason. ‘It is all but impossible for them to gain access to books, and a Common Library will transform their lives.’

  ‘I do not care about them,’ spat Teversham. ‘I care about what will happen to my College now that this ridiculous grace has been passed – namely donors giving their collections to it, and Bene’t being overlooked. Then we shall be impoverished!’

  There was a rumble of agreement from the Colleges and convents, which tended to be well endowed with reading matter, and cries of ‘shame!’ from the hostels, which were not.