‘That is hardly helpful,’ said Michael reproachfully. ‘Let us discuss his foot, then. What do you make of that?’
‘It looks as though the damage was caused by a pointed implement that struck it with some force, but that was prevented from breaking the skin by his hard-leather shoe.’
‘Did you ever notice Coslaye limping? If we can ascertain when he came by this injury, we may be able to work out how it happened.’
Bartholomew thought hard. ‘I was attacked on Wednesday night, and we met Coslaye the next day when he was quarrelling with the Carmelites, but I do not recall whether he hobbled or not. The next time I saw him, he was lying down – he was ill from bad food. And the time after that he was sitting, reading to his students.’
It told them nothing, and Michael’s expression was unhappy as he led the way inside the hostel, where he asked the Batayl men again what they thought had happened.
‘And do not accuse the Carmelites unless you have solid evidence to prove it,’ he warned.
Browne glowered and folded his arms, petulantly declining to speak unless he could reiterate his firmly held convictions.
‘Perhaps it was suicide,’ suggested Pepin with a Gallic shrug. ‘Coslaye has not been himself since Dunning gave Newe Inn away.’
‘It was not suicide,’ said Bartholomew, trying to gauge the Frenchman’s expression in the flickering light. Had he dispatched his Principal for being a Francophobe? ‘Killing yourself with a blow to the back of the head is virtually impossible.’
‘Virtually impossible,’ pounced Pepin. ‘That means there is a chance that I am right. Yes?’
‘A very small one.’ Bartholomew gave up trying to read Pepin, and turned to Browne. ‘Did you and Coslaye come straight home after visiting Newe Inn earlier this evening?’
‘Coslaye did, but I had business elsewhere.’ Browne scowled when Michael indicated that this was not enough of an answer. ‘All right, I went to watch the Carmelite Priory. But so what? It is not illegal to stare at friaries. I only wish I had stayed longer, because then they could not have sneaked into our home and murdered our Principal!’
There was a growl of agreement from the students, while Bartholomew thought that Browne’s reply did Pepin no favours – if Coslaye had arrived home without Browne, and all the others had been at a sermon in St Mary the Great, it meant that Coslaye and Pepin had been alone together.
‘The Carmelites hate us,’ said Browne, eagerly seizing the opportunity to put his case. ‘And it is obvious what happened: when Coslaye did not immediately agree to Etone’s offer of a truce, one of them came here and murdered him, just as they tried to murder him when they threw that book at the Convocation.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ cried Pepin suddenly, raising the lamp to illuminate what Cynric held. ‘Maybe you are wrong to accuse the White Friars, because here is a big book – one with blood all over it!’
‘It is Bartholomew’s,’ said Browne. ‘I saw him bring it. Is he Coslaye’s murderer, then?’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael, raising his hand when several students moved threateningly towards the physician. ‘He is not in the habit of dispatching patients, especially after expending so much effort on making them well.’
‘Surgery!’ spat Browne. ‘Such techniques are contrary to God’s will. Doubtless Satan wanted the soul he should have had at the Convocation, and ordered Bartholomew to put matters right.’
‘If Coslaye’s surgery was against the will of God, then it cannot have been the Devil demanding his death now,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘If you must make slanderous accusations, at least ensure they are logical. However, I think we had better inspect your own books before we go any further.’
Without waiting for Browne’s response, he stalked towards the shelf where Batayl kept its small collection of reading material. When all eyes were on the monk, Cynric promptly shoved the bestiary back at Bartholomew with a moue of distaste.
‘Here is our murder weapon,’ said Michael, withdrawing the tome at the very bottom of the pile. He held it aloft, so the Batayl men could see the dark mess along its spine. ‘The blood is still wet, and you can see hair adhering to it. Coslaye’s.’
‘It is Acton’s Questio Disputata,’ breathed Pepin. ‘The book that almost killed him last time.’
Browne’s face was white with horror. ‘The fact that Coslaye was dispatched with one of our books does not mean that we did it. Anyone could have come in, grabbed the tome and hit him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now answer some questions. Who found him out here?’
‘Browne did,’ replied Pepin, rather quickly. ‘When everyone came back from the sermon, we had something to eat, then sat inside together, waiting for Cynric to come and talk to us about Poitiers. Browne–’
‘Poitiers!’ spat Browne angrily. ‘I am sick of hearing about Poitiers! We won – France is demoralised, she is crippled by debt, her peasants are on the verge of revolt, and our own army continues to ravage her farms and villages. Is this not enough? Must we continue to gloat over the bloody slaughter of her boys, too?’
‘Coslaye was not here,’ Pepin went on, after a brief pause in which everyone looked startled by the outburst. ‘And after a while we became worried, because we all knew how eager he was to hear Cynric. We went to look for him. Browne came out here to check the latrines and there he was …’
‘How long had he been missing?’ Michael demanded.
‘When he returned from Newe Inn, he sent me out to buy some ale to drink while we listened to Cynric,’ replied Pepin. ‘He was not here when I got back, and none of us saw him again until Browne found his corpse.’
‘You have three choices for suspects, Brother,’ said Browne tightly. ‘Namely Bartholomew, a Carmelite or the Devil. It is a pity you did not bother to catch the villain who tried to kill poor Coslaye the first time, because if you had, we might not be mourning him now.’
The next day was cloudy, and the dry heat of the past few days had turned humid. Bartholomew was called before dawn to tend one of the men in the castle, and then was summoned to the hovels on the towpath, where the riverfolk lived. As usual, they were uncommunicative, and it took some time to ascertain exactly what they wanted him to do. Eventually, he managed to evince that several were suffering from stomach pains.
‘Carp,’ said Torvin tersely.
Bartholomew was not surprised. The river was an open sewer, and waste was discharged into it by several friaries, Colleges and hostels, not to mention private houses and two mills. The fish in it were far from healthy, but the riverfolk devoured them anyway, despite his repeated urging to set their nets farther upstream.
‘When did they eat it?’ he asked.
The riverfolk exchanged glances, and he had the feeling that a silent conversation was taking place, one from which he was excluded.
‘Friday,’ replied Torvin eventually.
‘Three days,’ mused Bartholomew. Pangs from tainted food usually eased sooner. He examined all five patients, then sat back perplexed. They looked unwell, with ashen complexions and dark smudges under their eyes, but did not seem to be in unbearable discomfort. He wrote out the remedy he usually dispensed for upset stomachs, then sent a child to the apothecary, remembering to include threepence with the note, because the riverfolk had no money of their own.
‘Perhaps you should avoid fish from the river until after it rains,’ he suggested. ‘Then the rubbish will be washed away, and the water will be cleaner.’
‘They were not from the river,’ said Torvin. ‘They came from Newe Inn’s pond.’
Bartholomew remembered how ill he had felt after swallowing water from the pool. Then he frowned as something occurred to him: Batayl had also suffered from roiling innards, and Browne had admitted to poaching from the library’s grounds – fish that Pepin had added to his stew. Had the stolen carp been responsible for the sickness that had claimed an entire hostel, rather than the dangerously old meat that he had assumed was the culprit?