There was a shout, and Etone trotted towards them, all agitated hand gestures and swirling habit. ‘How did you know? We have only just discovered it ourselves.’
‘That is just what I said,’ muttered the doorman, crossing himself again.
‘How did we know about what?’ demanded Michael.
‘Come with me, Brother,’ said Etone grimly. ‘You, too, Matthew.’
They followed him to the scriptorium. The light had begun to fade, so work was finished for the day: lids were on inkpots, pens were laid in neat rows ready for the morning, and half-finished books and scrolls were locked in a chest for safekeeping. At the far end of the room was the little chamber where Jorz and Riborowe experimented. Etone beckoned them towards it.
Jorz was lying face-down in a bowl of ink. He had been sitting at a table, and there was a spoon in his right hand: he had evidently been stirring his potion when he had pitched forward. Red pigment was splattered everywhere.
Carefully, Bartholomew pulled Jorz upright. He was cool to the touch, and there was a stiffness around the jaws that suggested death had occurred some time before. The scribe’s face was stained bright scarlet, and the sight was so disturbing that Bartholomew covered it with a cloth.
‘We finished work early today, to decorate the chapel for Corpus Christi,’ Riborowe sobbed. ‘But Jorz stayed behind, because we had an experiment running.’
‘He was keen to perfect his invention,’ said Etone sadly. ‘He told me he was going to work for as long as the light allowed. I wish I had refused, then he would not have died alone.’
‘I came to see how he was getting on the moment we had finished the chapel,’ wept Riborowe. ‘But he must have had a seizure, and dropped face-down into his ink.’
‘Is that possible, Matt?’ asked Michael uncertainly.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘The cause of death does appear to be drowning, and the bowl is deep enough to submerge his nose and mouth.’
‘It could happen to any of us, at any time,’ said Etone. He whispered a brief prayer.
‘Did you make any attempt to pull him out, perhaps to see whether he was still breathing?’ asked Bartholomew, studying the explosion of droplets and smears around the bowl.
‘We could see he was dead, so we did not try,’ said Etone. ‘I thought it would be more helpful if you saw him just as he was discovered.’
‘It is helpful; thank you,’ said Bartholomew, homing in on a clue that would have been lost if the body had been moved. ‘Jorz said he preferred to draw with his left hand, and was clumsy with his right. Yet he is holding the spoon in his right hand.’
‘That means nothing.’ Riborowe wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘He often poured with one hand, while stirring with the other. Like most of us, he was adept with both.’
‘But there is nothing on the table for him to pour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was stirring only. And even if he was two-handed, it is natural to perform such a task with the dominant one.’
‘Why are you asking these questions?’ Etone was beginning to look alarmed. ‘Surely, you do not think someone did this to him? That he was murdered?’
‘Batayl!’ cried Riborowe immediately. ‘They do not believe we are innocent of killing Coslaye, and now Browne is missing. They think we dispatched him, too, and they killed Jorz in revenge!’
‘Batayl did not do this,’ said Michael quickly, although Bartholomew recalled that Browne had crept into the scriptorium on a previous occasion and made Jorz jump violently enough to burn himself. It was entirely possible that he had done it again, this time with fatal consequences – assuming he was still alive himself, of course.
‘I agree,’ said Etone quietly. ‘The Batayl men are unpleasant, but they are not killers.’
‘Regardless,’ said Riborowe, suddenly fearful, ‘Jorz’s death is another connected to libraries.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes.
‘I refer to the rumour that libraries are dangerous places,’ began Riborowe. ‘And–’
‘This is a scriptorium, not a library,’ interrupted Michael.
‘It is a place associated with books,’ countered Riborowe.
Etone crossed himself. ‘Perhaps God is trying to tell us something with all these accidents.’
‘Accidents?’ hissed Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I detect a human hand at work in this – and not one directed by the Almighty, either.’
‘Have you seen Langelee this evening?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or Ayera?’
‘I think I saw Langelee cross our yard earlier,’ said Etone, clearly taken aback by the question out of the blue. ‘But I may have been mistaken. Why?’
‘Because we need to speak to him,’ replied Michael when Bartholomew hesitated, not sure what to say. ‘In fact, we were looking for him when your doorman dragged us in to inspect Jorz.’
‘Well, if he appears, we shall pass the word that you want him,’ offered Etone agreeably.
Bartholomew helped two lay-brothers load Jorz on to a bier, to be carried to the chapel. Then, while Riborowe organised vigils and prayers for his dead friend’s soul, Etone accompanied the Michaelhouse men to the gate.
‘I suspect Jorz’s seizure was induced by the noxious substances he put in his ink,’ the Prior confided as they walked. ‘Some of them reeked, but he always resisted my efforts to encourage him into the fresh air. Northwood used to say the same, but Jorz never listened.’
‘Well, Matt?’ demanded Michael, once he and Bartholomew were outside and alone again. It was almost dark. ‘What do you really think?’
‘That Etone may be right: Jorz was using red lead in his ink, and that is very toxic. Perhaps he did faint from lack of clean air and toppled forward to drown. Or perhaps someone crept up behind him, and held his head in the basin until he stopped breathing. If the latter is true, whoever it was will be splattered with red ink – you saw the mess on the table.’
Michael was worried. ‘Suttone said that Langelee gave Agatha some ink-stained clothes to wash this evening. And Etone thought he saw him in the friary earlier. We must find him, and demand to know what is going on.’
‘Find him where?’ asked Bartholomew, equally anxious. ‘He might be anywhere. I will set Cynric to track him down, but he may not even be in the town.’
‘You mean he might have gone with Ayera to meet the raiders in the Fens?’
‘It is possible. Regardless, I have a terrible feeling that he is in danger – that Ayera has enmeshed him in something he does not fully understand and that may prove fatal to him. Perhaps Ayera killed Jorz, and Langelee tried to stop him. That would explain the inky clothes.’
‘Yes, it would.’ But Michael did not look convinced.
‘We are out of our depth here, Brother. Where is Dame Pelagia? We need her help.’
Michael winced. ‘Unfortunately, Browne, Langelee and Ayera are not the only ones who have disappeared. I cannot find my grandmother, either.’
Knowing it would be impossible to locate Langelee and Ayera on their own, Michael reluctantly enlisted the help of the other Fellows. He silenced their objections by furnishing a terse account of what Gyseburne, Willelmus and Ayce had claimed, adding that Ayera had not been the only Michaelhouse man to roam the town at odd hours, because the Master had been doing it, too.
‘I knew it!’ hissed Thelnetham, when the monk had finished. ‘I knew the villain in that pair would not lie dormant for long. And now they harm the rest of us by association.’
‘Let us not jump to conclusions,’ said Father William warningly. ‘Nothing has been proven.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘Ayera has been meeting dangerous men in dark places for the last two months or so, because the rat told me, but there will be an innocent explanation.’