‘They were members of Batayl,’ Pepin reminded the visitors. ‘So they should have opposed the scheme that saw us deprived of the house Dunning promised we should have.’
‘And he did promise,’ added Browne. ‘No matter what he says now.’
‘They lived in a lovely cottage on the High Street,’ said Coslaye bitterly. ‘Because Weasenham paid them a decent wage, and they could afford it. But the rest of us were not so fortunate.’
‘Let us return to this meeting you attended on Tuesday,’ said Michael. ‘What time did it end?’
‘Dusk,’ replied Coslaye. ‘Then we came home and went to bed. Yet I did hear one odd thing during the night …’
‘Did you?’ asked Browne. ‘That surprises me. You have slept like a baby ever since Bartholomew sawed open your head.’
‘I woke,’ snapped Coslaye crossly. ‘And I heard a bell.’
‘A bell?’ echoed Michael. ‘You mean from a church? For vespers or compline?’
‘No, it was too late for either, and it was too high-pitched to have been a bell from a church, anyway. It was a small bell. And it definitely came from Newe Inn’s garden.’
Michael asked a few more questions, but the scholars of Batayl were an incurious, unobservant crowd, and had nothing else to add. Browne opened the door for them when they left, then stepped outside, lowering his voice so he would not be heard by his Principal.
‘Do not put too much faith in this bell, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Bartholomew should never have performed his evil surgery, because Coslaye has not been right since, and often claims to hear things the rest of us do not. Do not let his “testimony” lead you astray.’
Chapter 7
When they left Batayl, Michael insisted on visiting Newe Inn, to ask whether anyone there had heard a bell on the night Northwood and his friends had died. As usual, it was alive with the sounds of sawing and hammering, and apprentices tore up and down the stairs, yelling urgently to each other. The reek of wood oil was stronger than it had been the last time they had visited – the bust of Aristotle had been drenched in it and had been left outside to dry in the sun.
They walked up to the libri distribuendi, where Bartholomew admired the room’s understated opulence yet again. It felt like a place of learning – venerable, solid and sober. Kente came to greet them, his face grey and lined with exhaustion.
‘You should rest,’ advised Bartholomew, regarding him with concern. ‘You will make yourself ill if you drive yourself so hard.’
Kente managed to smile. ‘It is only for another four days, and the bonus for finishing on time will more than compensate me for any discomfort. I am not the only one who is tired, anyway – Walkelate and Frevill have worked just as hard, if not harder.’
‘They have,’ agreed Michael, looking around. ‘Although I still fail to understand why Walkelate accepted this project in the first place, given his College’s antipathy towards it.’
‘Antipathy!’ snorted Kente. ‘Downright hostile opposition would be a more accurate description. And he accepted because it is right. He is an ethical man – a little eccentric perhaps, and given to funny ideas, but so are all scholars, so we should not hold it against him.’
‘What sort of funny ideas?’ asked Bartholomew.
Kente sniffed. ‘None as strange as yours, Doctor, with your hand-washing and affection for boiled water. His include things like making metal brackets for the bookshelves. We were skidding about on iron filings for days before I managed to convince him that wooden ones are better.’
‘I know we have asked before, but do you have any theories about the four scholars who died not a stone’s throw from here?’ enquired Michael hopefully.
‘Of course. It has come to light that they were using the garden for sly experiments – trying to make lamp fuel before the men who had the idea in the first place – and the Devil likes those kind of sinners. He came and took them.’
‘Other people say it was God,’ remarked Michael.
Kente shrugged. ‘Well, neither will appreciate you probing their business, so I should let the matter drop if I were you. But you are not here to chat to me. Come, I will take you to Walkelate.’
Bartholomew and Michael followed him into the room containing the libri concatenati, where Walkelate was in conference with Frevill and Dunning. The King’s Hall architect looked tired, and so did Frevill, although neither seemed to be teetering on the edge of collapse like Kente.
‘I am alarmed by the amount of work still to be done,’ Dunning was saying. ‘Are you sure all will be ready?’
‘Yes,’ the architect replied firmly. ‘Just one more polish, and we shall seal the door to this room until the grand opening on Thursday.’
‘And we have almost finished the shelves for the libri distribuendi, too,’ added Frevill. ‘We may have to labour frantically to see them absolutely perfect. But perfect they will be.’
‘They will,’ agreed Walkelate. He rested his hand on Frevill’s shoulder, and beamed at Kente. ‘I could not have hoped for better craftsmen. Working with you has been a privilege.’
The sincerity of his words seemed to give Kente new energy and he drew himself up to his full height. ‘Come, Frevill. Let us see whether Aristotle is dry.’
The craftsmen left, and Dunning went with them, muttering about some aspect of the bust that was not to his liking.
‘How may I help you, Brother?’ asked Walkelate, beginning to make notes on a scrap of parchment using the cista as a table. ‘Ah! Good day, Holm. How are you?’
Bartholomew turned to see the surgeon behind him, holding a large packet. Walkelate leapt to his feet and seized it eagerly.
‘Is this it?’ he demanded, eyes full of keen anticipation.
‘It is, and I made it myself,’ replied Holm, oozing smug confidence. ‘Out of rose petals and lily of the valley. And I added cinnamon and nutmeg, too, for good measure.’
‘It is to mask the stench of Kente’s wood oil,’ Walkelate explained excitedly to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘Holm assures me that it will have eliminated all unwanted odours by Thursday.’
‘I use it when wounds turn bad, and it always works,’ smiled the surgeon. ‘You are a friend, Walkelate, so I shall not charge you for my labour. A shilling will cover the cost of the ingredients.’
‘Thank you,’ said Walkelate gratefully, handing over the coins, although Bartholomew thought the price rather high. ‘I shall fetch a bowl.’
Holm raised his hands in a shrug when the architect had gone, as if he felt the need to explain his friendship. ‘He was kind to me when I first arrived, so I decided to continue the association. He ranks quite highly at King’s Hall, and I am always happy to maintain good relations with those who might be useful to me one day. But what are you doing here?’
‘Looking into the death of your colleague Vale and his friends,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘I do not suppose you noticed anything amiss, did you, from your home next door?’
‘Only the lights, which I have already mentioned to Bartholomew,’ replied Holm. ‘And I would tell you if I had seen anything else, because I shall play a prominent role in this library’s opening, and I have no intention of being deprived of an opportunity to shine.’
‘Walkelate tells us that you hired singers that night,’ said Michael. ‘To entertain the craftsmen.’