‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no sign of a struggle, and the floor really is uneven. In other words, there is nothing to say one way or the other what really happened.’
Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Yet another death with a curious paucity of clues. Either we are dealing with a very sly killer, or we are both losing our touch.’
‘Or there is nothing to find,’ countered Rougham. ‘Not every death in the University is suspicious, Brother, and if you think so, it is time to follow Tynkell’s example, and retire.’
There was no more to be done, so Michael went to break the news to Bene’t. Bartholomew was ordered to wait outside, lest Heltisle took exception to his presence. The physician sat on the edge of a horse trough and pondered Teversham’s curious end. He had not been doing it for long before a shadow fell across him, and he looked up to see his sister.
‘What is happening in your wretched University now, Matt?’ she asked, perching next to him.
‘In what respect?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
‘All these deaths. Browne from Batayl has just told me that not only did four men die in the Common Library garden, but that Sawtre and Rolee died in libraries, too. He is braying to everyone that such places are dangerous.’
‘They seem to be, at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, supposing the rumours would really fly when word seeped out about Teversham’s demise.
‘Then please stay out of them,’ begged Edith. ‘I could not bear to lose you.’
When she had gone, Bonabes and Ruth strolled past. Every so often, one would bump against the other, and their hands would touch. They obviously thought they were being discreet, but a number of people noticed and grinned behind their backs. Michael appeared after what felt like an age.
‘They took it badly,’ he said, his plump face pale. Breaking such news was never pleasant. ‘But that is not surprising after Rolee. Two Fellows is a lot to lose in as many days.’
‘If Teversham was murdered, his death raises a whole new set of questions,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘Because he, unlike the other victims, opposed the Common Library. Violently.’
‘True,’ said Michael. ‘And it means that I am now extremely confused and can no longer see even a glimmer of sense in all that has happened.’
‘Perhaps there is none to see,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And they are just a series of random and unconnected events.’
‘You do not really believe that,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And neither do I.’
Bartholomew groaned when Michael said they needed to visit Newe Inn to investigate the assault on Langelee – he was rapidly becoming sick of the place. When they arrived, it was to find Walkelate dealing with parcels of books donated by people who wanted to be recorded as the foundation’s first benefactors. The door to the libri concatenati was closed, and the chamber holding the libri distribuendi was frantically busy. Sawdust was everywhere, and Bartholomew wondered how Walkelate could possibly think it would be ready in three days.
‘Langelee was assaulted?’ Walkelate whispered in horror, when Michael explained why they were there. ‘Here?’
‘In the garden,’ replied Michael. ‘By the pond, apparently, shortly before sext.’
‘Then his assailant chose his time well, because everyone was out then except Kente. The labourers and their apprentices went to a meeting in the Guild Hall about the pageant, while Frevill and I went to the Carmelite scriptorium, to commission labels for our shelves.’
‘But Kente was here?’
‘Yes. He is out at the moment, purchasing gilt, but he will not be long. Will you wait?’
Michael nodded. ‘The attack on our Master is a serious matter, and–’
He turned at the sound of feet on the stairs. It was Dunning, come to inspect progress again. His daughters were with him, with Bonabes behind. Walkelate promptly abandoned Michael, and scurried to greet them, assuring them that the work was much further forward than the untrained eye might think. Dunning did not look convinced.
‘It must be perfect,’ he said, worriedly, ‘or my Guild will think me a fool for wasting my money.’
‘It will be perfect,’ promised Walkelate. ‘But Aristotle is finished at last, and we will mount him on his shelf later today. Have you ever seen more exquisite craftsmanship?’
‘It is fine,’ acknowledged Dunning, running appreciative fingers across the bust. ‘Especially now you have given him less of a nose. I was right to ask you to remodel it, because he looked foreign with the great beak he had originally.’
‘Yet I think you will find he was foreign,’ Michael pointed out, amused. ‘Greek, I believe.’
‘Nonsense,’ declared Dunning dismissively. ‘Aristotle was an Englishman.’
‘The opening ceremony is important to him,’ said Julitta, coming to talk to Bartholomew while Michael regaled her sceptical father with an account of the philosopher’s antecedents. ‘He is beginning to be nervous, lest all does not go according to plan.’
‘Why should it not?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Well, not every scholar likes the place,’ Julitta pointed out wryly. ‘Brother Michael told me only yesterday that he spends half his life quelling arguments about it.’
‘There was one between Essex Hostel and Bene’t College in our shop this morning,’ added Ruth, who was listening. Bartholomew was not surprised to see Bonabes close behind her. ‘I thought they were going to start hitting each other, but Bonabes managed to evict them first. They slunk away once they were outside, because several beadles were watching.’
‘Father is afraid there will be a spat during the ceremony,’ elaborated Julitta. ‘But I imagine that is less likely if Brother Michael arrests the villain responsible for whatever happened to poor Northwood and the others.’
‘Michael will find the culprit,’ Bartholomew heard himself promise. ‘And I shall help.’
‘Thank you.’ Julitta smiled as she laid a hand on his arm. It felt warm through the material of his shirt, and made his skin tingle. She lowered her voice. ‘I am looking forward to you teaching me how to read once our patients no longer need such time-consuming care. I cannot wait to see my husband’s face! As I said the other night, it will be the most wonderful gift for him.’
‘He will hate it,’ predicted Bonabes, when Julitta had gone to stand with Dunning. ‘Because it means she will be able to monitor his spending of her father’s money.’
Ruth winced, and turned the subject back to the University’s troubles. ‘Did you know that Browne is telling everybody that the London brothers died because God does not approve of libraries? I doubt trouble will be averted if Michael produces God as his villain!’
‘Browne is talking rubbish,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a human hand at work here.’
‘I agree,’ said Ruth. ‘And I have learned something that might help you find the culprit. It is about Northwood. Apparently, he used the money from selling the novices’ exemplars to buy materials for his experiments. The apothecary told me.’
‘What kind of materials?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Red lead and myrrh. Both in very large quantities. And I think I know why, too. Rougham and Holm refused to let him help you invent lamp fuel, and my husband declined his offer to be part of our paper-making trials. So he must have decided to branch out on his own. He was inspired by those scholars from Oxford and their clever inventions, and he wanted to do something similar.’
‘I wish we had included him,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘We might have solved the problem by now, because he had a sharp mind.’
‘Lots of scholars have sharp minds, yet their work proceeds at a snail’s pace,’ said Bonabes disapprovingly. ‘Surely, it cannot be that difficult to make lamp fuel and ink? Perhaps I shall turn my hand to these questions when we have mastered paper. There is a lot of money to be made from them, and I could do with some extra pennies.’