To mask his bemusement at the remark, Bartholomew went to inspect the ladder. One of the legs had split, causing the whole thing to topple sideways when Rolee reached the top. It was not much of a drop from the mezzanine, and he had been acutely unlucky to land so awkwardly.
‘Will there be an investigation?’ asked Heltisle in an uncharacteristically small voice. He hated situations that involved the Senior Proctor, because bad publicity affected benefactions.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Michael will need to examine the steps, and he will want you to tell him exactly what happened. Beyond that, I cannot say.’
‘Very well,’ sniffed Heltisle. ‘Although it is a waste of time. He can do more good by looking into those four corpses at the Common Library. The grace to found such an institution should never have been passed, you know. It is a wicked scheme, and will end in tears.’
There was a chorus of agreement from his Fellows. Bartholomew said nothing, knowing the remarks were aimed at him for having had the audacity to support it.
‘We are not paying you for this visit, by the way,’ said Heltisle. ‘We called you to help Rolee, but instead you only pronounced him dead. You did not use your skills to save him.’
A fee had been the last thing on Bartholomew’s mind – he frequently forgot to charge for his services anyway – and he waved away Heltisle’s comment as of no consequence.
‘So you may have this instead,’ Heltisle went on, pressing a book into his hands.
‘No!’ Bartholomew tried to hand it back. ‘This is far too valuable for–’
‘I have never heard a physician try to negotiate his fee downwards before,’ said Heltisle with a grim smile. ‘Perhaps the tales about your honesty are true after all.’
‘Oh, he is honest,’ muttered Teversham. ‘That has never been in question. It is his pact with the Devil that I am worried about.’
Bartholomew sighed wearily. ‘I have no pact with the Devil. Why will no one believe me?’
‘Because no medicus should enjoy as much success as you do,’ explained Teversham shortly. ‘It is not natural.’
‘You condemn me for saving people?’ asked Bartholomew archly.
‘If Satan does not help you, then how do you explain your victories?’ demanded Teversham.
‘Hot water mostly,’ flashed Bartholomew, and then wished he had not.
Evesham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Water that has been cooked in the fires of Hell?’
‘Water from the town well,’ snapped Bartholomew, angry with himself for not guessing how Bene’t would respond to his remarks, especially after his recent conversation with Gyseburne about boiled bandages. ‘Which has been heated in our kitchen.’
‘We do not want to know, thank you,’ said Heltisle, cutting across Teversham’s response. ‘However, to return to the book, we decided before you arrived that we would give it to the medicus who tended Rolee. Not only is it a bestiary – and we do not have room for such foolery in our library – but he cut his hand last week, and managed to smear blood all over it.’
Bartholomew peered at the ominous stain in the gloom. ‘I am sure it will wash off. But I cannot take a book, even so. It is far too–’
‘It is yours now, whether you like it or not,’ added Teversham. ‘Put it in your Common Library if you decline to keep it yourself. God knows, that foundation is tainted enough, so Rolee’s nasty volume should feel perfectly at home there.’
Bartholomew objected to being bullied into accepting a gift he did not want, but he was too tired for further confrontation. He nodded cool thanks, and left Bene’t without another word. He began to walk home again, craving the gentler company of Michaelhouse, but running footsteps made him spin around in alarm. He braced himself for trouble, but it was only Cynric.
‘Come quick,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘Coslaye was not in when I arrived, so the students went to look for him. They found him in his garden, and his head has been stove in by a book.’
‘Again?’ asked Bartholomew in dismay.
‘Yes,’ panted Cynric. ‘And your surgery will not save him this time. He is utterly dead.’
Chapter 8
It was not far from Bene’t College to Cholles Lane, and it took only a few moments for Bartholomew to run the distance, Cynric at his heels. It was now pitch black, and the streets smelled of warm dust and horse manure, overlain with the dank, rich odour of the river.
The door to Batayl was open, and Bartholomew walked inside to find the hostel deserted. Raised voices told him that everyone was in the tiny garden, which was accessed through a second door at the back of the house. Batayl’s eight students, Browne, Michael and two beadles were crammed into it, all clustered around Coslaye, who lay on the ground.
‘Perhaps you should take your lads inside, Browne,’ Michael was saying. ‘There is no need for them to witness this sad sight.’
‘There is every need,’ Browne snapped. ‘Their Principal has been most wickedly slain by Carmelites, and they should see this vile handiwork.’
‘Enough,’ said Michael warningly. ‘We must assess the evidence before–’
‘Evidence be damned!’ shouted Browne. ‘We all know who did this terrible thing.’
The students howled their support, and it was not easy for Bartholomew to dodge through their waving fists to reach Coslaye. He managed, finally, shoving his new bestiary at Cynric, and inspecting the fallen Principal in the feeble light shed from a lamp held by Pepin.
Coslaye lay on his front, arms thrown out to the sides. He had been dealt a substantial blow from behind, heavy enough to smash his skull. An examination revealed no other suspicious marks, except a bad bruise on his left foot.
‘How did he come by this?’ he asked.
‘It probably happened in Newe Inn, which is always littered with dangerous bits of wood and tools,’ said Browne, his sullen expression making it clear that he considered the injury of far less importance than the one to Coslaye’s head, which had killed him. ‘Walkelate is always inviting us in there, probably in the hope that we will be maimed – in revenge for us opposing his stupid library.’
Bartholomew inspected the foot more closely, and deduced that something sharp had struck it, such as might have happened if a dagger had been lobbed. He stared at the mark. Had Coslaye been among the men who had ambushed him, injured by one of Pelagia’s knives? But why would he want a formula for wildfire? Or had Coslaye been hurt attacking the castle, and Robin had seen him among the raiders? But Coslaye claimed to have been quarrelling with the Carmelites at the time, and so could not have been wielding a sword.
Michael nodded to his beadles, who began to usher the Batayl men back into their hostel. They objected, particularly Browne, but the beadles were used to recalcitrant academics, and soon had them where they wanted them to be.
‘What can you tell me, Matt?’ asked Michael, once they had gone.
‘That Coslaye was hit from behind with something heavy. And that the damage to his foot is several days older.’
‘Did he know his killer? Or is this the work of a stranger?’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How am I supposed to deduce that?’
‘By the way the body landed?’ suggested Michael. ‘Or the position of the wound? You have drawn such conclusions before, so do not look at me as though I am short of wits.’
‘He is on his front, so he may have been running from a stranger when he was struck. Of course, he could equally well have been trying to escape from a murderous friend. Alternatively, his body could have been moved after he died, to make us think he was fleeing from someone.’