Holm nodded. ‘They were oiling shelves, which is painstakingly dull, so I took pity on them. However, I wished I had not – they joined in the songs and the caterwauling was dreadful. I could hear them from my house, and was obliged to close the windows in the end.’
Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. Why had the surgeon so suddenly decided to treat Walkelate’s exhausted workforce? Did he have another reason for his uncharacteristic kindness – such as drowning out anything that might have been happening in the garden?
‘Do you ever visit the pond?’ he asked, watching Holm intently.
But he was wasting his time; he could read nothing in the bland features except a mild surprise at the question. ‘No, of course not. I understand it is full of evil sprites.’
‘Then did you ever see Vale, Northwood or the London brothers there?’ asked Michael.
‘I have better things to do than gaze into overgrown gardens. I only noticed those lights because I happened to leave a book on my windowsill, and I saw them when I went to move it.’ Holm’s expression turned salacious. ‘Have you heard the rumour that Vale and Ruth were once lovers?’
Bartholomew struggled to mask his dislike of the man, and wondered how Julitta, who seemed sensible, could be deceived by the oily charm he oozed when he was with her. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘But I do not believe it can be true. Ruth is a decent lady.’
‘You are half right,’ said Holm, with a nasty smile. ‘It is not true. And the reason is because Ruth’s heart belongs to Bonabes, and Bonabes’s to her. Which explains why a man of the Exemplarius’s abilities and intelligence continues to labour for the ghastly Weasenham.’
‘I thought as much,’ said Michael, although the claim came as a surprise to Bartholomew, who was not very observant about such matters. ‘Bonabes is never far from Ruth, and I have seen the secret looks they exchange. They should take more care, because Weasenham is vindictive.’
‘And he has poisonous substances to hand,’ added Holm darkly. ‘Ones for making paper.’
‘Here,’ said Walkelate, returning with a basin. He tipped Holm’s concoction into it, and set it on a shelf. Bartholomew inspected it and saw that the mixture comprised mostly bits of stem, which would do little to combat noxious smells. Holm had cheated the man he claimed was a friend.
‘We were lucky not to have been slaughtered in our beds yesterday, because Tulyet proved woefully inadequate at defending us,’ said Holm conversationally. ‘I am going to complain to the King about him. Now I live in this town, it must be properly guarded.’
‘I doubt you were in danger,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘I suspect the raiders were local men who wanted the tax money, and they will know better than to harm the town’s only surgeon.’
‘That cannot be true,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tulyet would have noticed any Cambridge resident assembling a private army–’
‘I beg to differ,’ interrupted Walkelate. ‘The raiders headed straight for the Great Tower. In other words, they knew exactly where to go, which outsiders would not have done. Tulyet is scouring the marshes for the culprits, but he should be looking in the town.’
‘You mean scholars?’ asked Michael uncomfortably. ‘It was not Principal Coslaye, if that is the rumour you have heard. He has an alibi for the time of the attack.’
‘Coslaye?’ asked Walkelate, taken aback. ‘He is not the kind of man to take part in armed scuffles!’
‘Oh, yes, he is,’ countered Holm, all malice. ‘He is a hot-tempered warmonger, who–’
‘He was with the Carmelites during the invasion,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I assure you, no scholars were involved in that terrible business.’
‘If you say so,’ said Holm blandly, making no effort to look convinced.
There was no evidence of bells in Newe Inn or its garden, and when they had finished searching, Bartholomew said he needed to visit the castle, to check on his patients. Michael accompanied him, as he wanted to speak to Agatha’s nephew about Coslaye.
‘It is the sort of task I should have been able to delegate to a Junior Proctor,’ he grumbled, as they walked. ‘But none of our lazy colleagues sees fit to help me.’
‘Holm lives very close to the place where Vale and the others died,’ Bartholomew remarked, declining to address the fact that no sane scholar would want to be Michael’s minion. ‘And as you have pointed out, all medici have a working knowledge of poisons.’
‘You want him accused because you do not like him,’ said Michael astutely. He shrugged at Bartholomew’s sheepish smile. ‘I do not blame you: he is a vile individual. So is Coslaye, come to that, yet here I am, racing to prove his innocence. Perhaps we should let the tale run its course, because I do not want bigots like Coslaye in my University.’
‘We are not “racing” to save him, we are doing it to prevent the town from accusing scholars of assaulting the castle – a rumour that may end in a riot.’
‘True,’ conceded Michael with a sigh. ‘I am not sure what to make of his claim of hearing a bell, though. Perhaps Browne is right: Coslaye just hears things these days.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘The hooded man you chased out of Newe Inn’s garden last night was looking for something. Why not a bell?’
Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘What would anyone want with a bell?’
‘Perhaps Meadowman will be able to tell you if he finds one during his dredging. Look! There is Dunning again, with Ruth and Bonabes. Julitta is not with them, so I wonder if she is still at the castle.’ He hoped so. It would be pleasant to see her again.
Michael glanced sideways at him. ‘You seem rather taken with her. Does Holm have a rival for her affections? Is that why you are so eager for him to be our murderous villain?’
To his horror, Bartholomew felt himself blushing. ‘No, of course not! Besides, love is not for me, not after Matilde. In fact, I am giving serious consideration to joining a religious Order.’
‘I would not recommend that,’ said Michael, somewhat unexpectedly, for he was usually keen to snare his friend for the Benedictines. ‘You might be used to poverty, but the obedience would be a problem. So would the chastity. Besides, you could do a lot worse than Julitta. She is made of much finer stuff than that pitiful widow you have been visiting.’
‘You know about that?’ asked Bartholomew, both surprised and chagrined.
‘Nothing escapes the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael smugly. ‘And you should pursue Julitta, because Holm will not make her happy. Even Clippesby says so, and he is hardly an astute observer of human nature.’
Confused and more than a little embarrassed, Bartholomew changed the subject. ‘So you think Holm is right when he says that Ruth has given her heart to Bonabes?’
He glanced to where Weasenham’s wife and Exemplarius were walking side by side. Bonabes was carrying a heavy parcel, and it slipped at that moment. Ruth darted forward to help him, after which they exchanged a glance of such smouldering passion that Bartholomew was dumbfounded.
‘I think we can assume he is,’ remarked Michael dryly.
‘Edith’s seamstresses worked all night to repair Frevill’s lye-burned cope,’ said Dunning, indicating the package as their paths converged. ‘We are just taking it back to him.’
‘It is better now than it was before,’ said Bonabes, setting the burden down and wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘Although Master Weasenham will face a hefty bill, I fear.’
‘It will not kill him,’ said Ruth. She exchanged an unfathomable glance with Bonabes, then smiled at Bartholomew. ‘Julitta is still nursing the wounded men. She refuses to leave them.’
‘I told her there are more pleasant ways to spend the day,’ added Dunning. ‘But she said she must inure herself to such sights for when she is married to Holm.’