‘I imagine he would be too weary for such antics,’ said Michael dismissively, beginning to walk away. ‘Walkelate has been driving his artisans very hard.’
‘Wait!’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Isnard claimed Frevill hit him earlier, and knocked him out of his wits.’
‘Why would Frevill do that?’ asked Michael, bemused.
Bartholomew thought fast. ‘Isnard must have seen or heard something he should not have done. Unfortunately, he was too drunk to make sense of it. The blow was a vicious one, and I think Frevill meant to kill him – which means he must have wanted Isnard silenced very badly.’
‘Quite,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘Isnard is lucky his throat was not cut, too, like poor Adam, the beggar and the night-watchman.’
Michael was silent for a moment, thinking, then he turned to Clippesby. ‘Tell the Sheriff what you saw. But please do it properly: say what you witnessed, and leave the water voles out of it.’
‘Yes, Brother.’ Clippesby sped away.
Michael looked down Cholles Lane. ‘I was right about this place, Matt. There is something untoward unfolding here.’
As the evening shadows lengthened, Bartholomew and Michael walked up the library stairs to find Walkelate sitting by the cista. He was alone, and the place felt oddly abandoned without craftsmen and apprentices bustling about. Even Aristotle, gazing down from his lofty perch, seemed forlorn.
‘The work is finished at last,’ Walkelate said softly. ‘Although Kente’s death has cast a pall over it, and I shall not enjoy the opening ceremony without him at my side.’
‘I am afraid I have more bad news for you,’ said Michael. ‘We have just learned that Frevill has been consorting with the raiders.’
Walkelate gave a pained smile. ‘I appreciate your efforts at humour, Brother, but I am not in the mood. And that is not a particularly amusing joke, anyway. Frevill is–’
‘It is no joke,’ said Michael. ‘We have a reliable … we have a witness. Where is Frevill?’
Walkelate’s kindly face crumpled into a mask of dismay. ‘But he cannot be involved with the robbers! He has been toiling with me these last six weeks, and has had no time to–’
‘You do not work at night.’ Michael interrupted a second time. ‘Which is when this gang meets local traitors, who guide them around the town, pointing out our weaknesses.’
‘No! I will not believe this!’ Walkelate turned at the sound of feet on the stairs. ‘Dunning! Thank God! Brother Michael is saying some terrible things about Frevill. Please stop him.’
‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Dunning, when Michael had repeated his accusations. ‘You have been working too hard, Brother, and it has addled your wits.’
‘He is right,’ said Walkelate kindly. ‘Perhaps a rest will–’
‘We cannot rest,’ said Michael shortly. ‘Our scholars are still bitterly divided over this wretched library, and there will be trouble unless we can pre-empt it.’
‘There will be no trouble,’ stated Dunning impatiently. ‘When your scholars see this fine building, even its most fervent detractors will change their minds. It will be a fabulous success, and Walkelate and I will be hailed as visionaries for seeing it through.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Walkelate dubiously. ‘Because I am extremely nervous. Suppose people say there is too much beech? Or that the shelves are too low …’
‘When did you last see Frevill?’ demanded Michael, not interested in the architect’s insecurities. ‘And please think carefully, because the safety of our town may depend on it.’
Walkelate gulped. ‘Last night. I told him he need not come today, as we have finished.’
‘I have not seen him, either,’ said Dunning. ‘But he has lived in Cambridge all his life, and would never harm it. His family is powerful and respected here.’
‘Look for Frevill in the stationer’s shop,’ said Walkelate suddenly. ‘The Carmelites promised labels for our shelves, but Jorz’s death has thrown them into confusion. Frevill mentioned last night that he might ask Weasenham to provide us with an alternative set.’
‘He may have gone to order them, I suppose,’ said Dunning. ‘He was worried that the Carmelites would not fulfil their obligations in time.’
Walkelate stood. ‘I shall come with you to find out.’
Bartholomew and Michael set off at a trot towards the High Street, the architect at their heels. Neither Michaelhouse man spoke. Michael was too breathless from what was a very rapid pace, while Bartholomew’s mind was teeming with questions and worries. Their silence allowed Walkelate to indulge in an agitated monologue about the height of his shelves.
It was dusk, and the holiday atmosphere had intensified since morning: people were determined to enjoy themselves no matter what. Most were armed, though, and Bartholomew was alarmed to see that many scholars were, too, despite the fact that they could be fined for carrying knives, swords and sticks. All were heading home, however, and it would not be long before the streets were deserted.
They reached Weasenham’s shop to find its windows shuttered, and the stationer escorting out the last of his customers. It was Riborowe, laden down with several heavy packages.
‘Someone has started a rumour that the Devil haunts our priory,’ Riborowe said angrily. Weasenham’s face went suspiciously bland. ‘But Jorz and Northwood were not killed by Satan.’
‘Well, they did not die because libraries are dangerous, either,’ said Walkelate firmly. ‘Whoever started that stupid story is a wicked villain who deserves to rot in Hell for his lies. I only hope the tale does not prevent people from using Newe Inn.’
‘I wish I owned a ribauldequin,’ muttered Riborowe, regarding the architect with naked hatred. ‘I would set it on our highest wall, and blast anyone who entered that accursed place.’
‘You would be just as likely to blast yourself,’ Walkelate flashed back. ‘You know as well as I do that those machines are extremely unreliable and a danger to their operators.’
‘Yet you still helped Sheriff Tulyet to build one,’ said Bartholomew, a little sharply.
‘Because I could see that he would make dangerous mistakes without me,’ explained Walkelate. ‘What would you have done? Let him produce a device that would definitely maim its crew? Or help him devise one that would at least give them a fighting chance?’
‘Bartholomew would have produced one that kills soldiers on both sides,’ said Riborowe unpleasantly, before the physician could think of a suitable reply. ‘Because that would please Satan.’
The Carmelite put his head in the air and sailed away while Bartholomew winced. Weasenham was listening, and would almost certainly repeat the remark to his other customers.
Unwilling to ask his questions in the street, Michael barrelled past the stationer and entered the shop. There was a brief scuffle within, and Bonabes and Ruth shot away from each other. Surreptitiously, Ruth straightened her clothing.
‘Have you seen Frevill?’ demanded Michael, ignoring their mortification. ‘The carpenter?’
‘Yes – he came to commission some shelf labels not long ago,’ replied Weasenham. His eyes narrowed when he saw the information was important. ‘Why?’
‘Did he say where he was going next?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.
‘He did,’ said Weasenham, looking from monk, to physician and then to architect with a face full of open curiosity. ‘But I will not tell you unless you explain why you want to know.’
‘Then I shall answer,’ said Ruth, shooting her husband an admonishing look. ‘He said he was going for a nice ride in the Fens, as Master Walkelate had given him a free day.’
Walkelate smiled at Michael. ‘You see? Frevill is innocent of your horrible suspicions after all. He is just enjoying a little peace after the fever of finishing our work.’