Michael regarded him uneasily, then led the way away from the smouldering hay, along the overgrown path that led to the pond. ‘Who would do such a terrible thing?’
‘Anyone who wants to see the Common Library fail, I suppose. Or wants to fuel the rumour that repositories for books are perilous places.’
As if to prove his words, Bartholomew overheard Cynric saying this to Meadowman when they approached the pool. The beadle was nodding sagely, agreeing with every word.
‘Meadowman,’ called Michael curtly. ‘Have you finished dredging yet?’
‘Yes, but it was a waste of time, Brother. The pool is extraordinarily deep, as you know – deeper than the height of three men. I did my best, but there was nothing to find.’
‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed. ‘You mean it was empty of everything except fish?’
‘I put those back,’ said Meadowman. ‘I wanted to take one home for supper, but Cynric said that Satan might join me at the dinner table if I did, because they belong to him.’
‘They made the riverfolk sick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the Batayl scholars.’
‘I told you,’ said Cynric, gratified. ‘There are evil faeries in that water, and they harm anyone who steals their produce.’ He crossed himself, and muttered an incantation to some heathen god.
‘I pulled out plenty of rubbish, of course,’ Meadowman went on. ‘But nothing that will help you understand what happened to the scholars who died here.’
Michael sighed. ‘We had better inspect what you have recovered anyway.’
The beadle pointed to a substantial mound of refuse, reeking and stained with brown mud; flies swarmed hungrily. There were rusted knives, broken pots, half-rotted baskets, countless oyster shells, what appeared to be part of a wooden chest, an ancient helmet, and a large number of animal bones. Michael regarded it all in distaste.
‘So what did that fellow expect to find when we almost laid hold of him here the other night?’
Meadowman shrugged. ‘Treasure? People hid their riches in all sorts of funny places during the Death, and I kept hoping we would discover a hoard.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘The Dunning family has rented Newe Inn to impecunious taverners for years. None had fortunes to conceal.’
‘Personally, I suspect those four scholars were trying to harness the power of demons,’ began Cynric. ‘And–’
‘No,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, wondering whether his own reputation as a warlock owed anything to his association with Cynric. He pointed. ‘When did you haul that large metal pot out?’
‘The witches’ cauldron?’ asked Cynric brightly. ‘Would you like it for your experiments? I can take it back to Michaelhouse and clean it off for you. I am sure it will scrub up beautifully.’
‘I do not want it,’ said Bartholomew quickly, aware of Meadowman’s knowing smirk. ‘But did you find it relatively quickly or later on? In other words, was it near the top of the items you uncovered, or buried deep?’
‘It was almost the first thing I hauled up,’ said Meadowman. ‘Why?’
Bartholomew tapped it with his forceps. It rang melodiously.
‘So Coslaye and the apprentice were right when they said they heard bells,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Can we assume that Northwood and his friends were doing something with this cauldron when they died, then, and it went in the pond at or near the same time that they did?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We have suspected all along that they were conducting alchemical experiments. Moreover, here are jars that almost certainly contained pitch and brimstone – two ingredients used to make lamp fuel.’ Or wildfire, he thought, but did not say. ‘But why here?’
‘That is easy to answer,’ replied Cynric. ‘Because the London brothers lived next door to Weasenham, the town’s biggest gossip; Vale lived in Gonville Hall, but they could not work there, because Rougham would have demanded an explanation–’
‘And Northwood would face similar problems at King’s Hall,’ finished Bartholomew. He glanced around him. ‘Yet it would be easy to work here undisturbed. Of course, it does not explain how they died.’
‘Perhaps they accidentally set themselves alight,’ suggested Meadowman. ‘And flung themselves in the pond to extinguish the flames.’
‘There was no evidence of burning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not on their clothes or their bodies.’
‘Then I was right all along,’ said Cynric with immense satisfaction. ‘They entered a place that belonged to the Devil, and he claimed them for his own.’
The day had turned hot and sultry, and there was not so much as a breath of wind. Michael grumbled bitterly as they walked along the High Street, aiming for the castle and Willelmus.
‘I was not designed for all this racing around,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. ‘And we have missed the midday meal. Of course, that is no great tragedy, given the quality of food at Michaelhouse these days. Even dinner on Trinity Sunday was dismal.’
Mention of College meals reminded Bartholomew of his concerns about his colleagues.
‘Do you think Ayera threw in his lot with the robbers because he wants to save us from debt?’ he asked worriedly. ‘The man who was caught – Ayce – said he and his fellow mercenaries had been very well paid.’
Michael nodded. ‘It is possible. Ayera was deeply disappointed when nothing came from his uncle’s benefaction. Embarrassed, too, after raising our hopes. His family lent him the money to buy the horse he wants, but the loan will have to be repaid – not easy on a Fellow’s salary.’
‘Then do you think that Langelee learned what Ayera was doing, and agreed to look the other way for a share of his earnings?’
‘Or for a chance to enrol with the robbers himself,’ said Michael soberly. ‘He was a warrior once, and we know from our recent journey to York that he has forgotten none of his brutish skills. Moreover, he takes his duties as Master seriously, and might see this as an opportunity to raise some quick and much-needed cash.’
Bartholomew agreed unhappily. ‘It would certainly explain why he prevented me from asking Ayera any more questions, and why Clippesby has seen them leaving the College at odd hours.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael, his face pale. ‘If Dick Tulyet ever finds out …’
He did not need to finish, because Bartholomew knew exactly the damage it would do. Langelee and Ayera would be obliged to resign – or worse; Tulyet might demand reparation from Michaelhouse that would plunge it even deeper into debt; and the King would be furious to learn that scholars had set greedy eyes on his taxes. The harm caused by such an incident would be vast, and although Bartholomew was generally opposed to concealing unsavoury secrets, this was one he would be more than happy to suppress.
As they approached the Jewry, they saw Weasenham sitting outside his shop. Ruth and Bonabes were just inside the door, she polishing some inkwells and he sharpening quills. Weasenham was watching passers-by with calculating eyes. He turned his head occasionally, to regale his wife and Exemplarius with his observations, but neither were paying him much attention.
‘I hear there have been nine deaths connected with libraries now,’ he called to Bartholomew and Michael as they passed. ‘It seems they are deadly places.’
‘They are nothing of the kind,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘So please do not spread silly tales.’
‘How can you deny it?’ demanded Weasenham. ‘I heard Walkelate telling Chancellor Tynkell about the snake that killed Kente, and the whole affair sounded downright sinister!’
‘You should not have eavesdropped,’ murmured Ruth. ‘It was not decent, especially given that Walkelate was obviously distressed. It was distasteful.’