If Lister was surprised to receive guests at such an hour, he hid it well. He brought wine and a plate of pastries, then left them alone to talk.
‘Lord!’ said Michael, scrubbing his face with his hands. ‘What a terrible night!’
‘Tomorrow will be worse,’ came a soft voice from the door. Both scholars leapt in alarm as Dame Pelagia glided into the room and casually took a seat.
‘How did you get in?’ Bartholomew’s nerves were raw. ‘I saw Lister lock the door behind us.’
Pelagia merely smiled. ‘Is there a spare cup of wine? It has been a long evening, and I am not as young as I was.’
She looked perfectly sprightly to Bartholomew.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael. ‘I thought you were discussing battle tactics with Tulyet.’
‘He can manage without me,’ replied Pelagia, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the claret. ‘And I wanted to talk to you, because it is time to use your clever wits – you have more than enough information to identify the villain who has been murdering scholars in libraries. And you are right: if we present a culprit it may avert trouble.’
‘We have nothing of the kind!’ exclaimed Michael, stunned by the claim. ‘Or I would have made an arrest already.’
‘You have failed to analyse the facts with your usual acuity,’ countered Pelagia. ‘And it is time to rectify the matter. So think!’
Bartholomew struggled to push his disgust at the recent slaughter to the back of his mind, and do as she ordered. ‘The first murders were the four men who died in Newe Inn’s pond,’ he began.
‘No,’ said Pelagia. ‘You are allowing a coincidence of location to mislead you, and I do not believe they are all the same case. Whose was the first death connected to a library?’
‘Sawtre’s,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He was crushed under a bookshelf.’
‘Good,’ said Pelagia, sipping more wine. ‘Continue.’
‘It was an accident. It cannot have been murder, because that would have entailed Sawtre waiting patiently while the rack was hauled on top of him, but people talked about it as though it were retribution for him supporting the Common Library.’ Bartholomew glanced at Pelagia, encouraged to see her nodding. ‘So it gave someone an idea?’
Pelagia clapped her hands. ‘There! You have it at last!’
‘The next to die was Rolee,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Dead of a broken neck. This looked like a mishap, but it would not have been difficult to tamper with the steps.’
‘Not difficult at all,’ agreed Pelagia.
‘The third victim was Coslaye, brained with Acton’s Questio Disputata. He was followed by Teversham, who choked to death when he became entangled in a book-chain. Teversham’s demise might have been bad luck – but it is more likely that a killer was on hand to ensure his victim fell in such a way as to strangle himself.’
‘Next was Kente, dead of a snake bite,’ said Michael, joining in. ‘The snake was in the bale of hay that Walkelate had bought to eliminate bad odours.’
‘Was it?’ asked Pelagia. ‘And was Kente the intended victim, or did the killer hope to bag another scholar? Walkelate himself, for example?’
‘And last was Jorz, drowned in ink,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘Probably not after a seizure.’
Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘Just tell us the killer’s name. I am too tired for games.’
But Pelagia declined to make it easy for him. ‘Your choices are limited. It must be a scholar, because no townsman could have gained access to King’s Hall, Bene’t, Gonville, the Common Library, the Carmelite Priory and Batayl, where all these deaths occurred.’
‘Three victims supported the Common Library,’ said Michael tentatively, ‘while two were–’
Pelagia slapped her hand on the table irritably. ‘No! The killer could not have predicted it would be Rolee who would break his neck when the stair broke, or that it would be Kente who was bitten by the snake. The point was to make scholars think that libraries are dangerous. The victims’ identities are irrelevant to him.’
‘So the culprit is a library detractor,’ surmised Michael. ‘But the knowledge does not help us.’
‘Of course, it does,’ coaxed Pelagia. ‘Consider the death that does not seem to fit with the others. That is the one that will give you the key to the killer. Which death was different from the rest – more brutal, less subtle and perhaps more personal?’
‘Coslaye’s?’ suggested Bartholomew tentatively. ‘He was brazenly murdered, whereas the others could ostensibly be accidents.’
‘Yes,’ said Pelagia encouragingly. ‘Go on.’
‘Is the culprit Pepin, then?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Because Coslaye painted a rather grim mural of a battle in which he doubtless lost friends and family, and rage led him to batter out his Principal’s brains? He did not plan it carefully like the others, but attacked in a blind fury?’
Pelagia rolled her eyes. ‘How could a mere student gain access to Colleges and the Carmelite Priory? However, your analysis of the crime and the killer’s motivation is probably correct.’
‘Browne!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘The man who has been spreading the tale that libraries are dangerous! He and Coslaye quarrelled constantly, and Coslaye was a violent man himself. An altercation may well have led to a murder committed on the spur of the moment. And Browne became Principal of Batayl once Coslaye was dead.’
‘At last!’ muttered Pelagia. ‘I thought we would never get there. Now go and arrest him.’
‘We cannot,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘He is missing.’
Pelagia looked exasperated. ‘It is summer and the nights are mild. Sleeping outside is no hardship, especially to a man who is wont to frequent a certain garden, poaching fish …’
As Bartholomew and Michael hurried to Cholles Lane, they were astonished to see that dawn was not far off – at which point Corpus Christi would be upon them with all its attendant problems. The gate that led to Newe Inn’s garden was locked, but Michael had a key.
‘These grounds are extensive,’ he said, fumbling in his haste to insert it. ‘Do you think we should summon my beadles? It would not do to let Browne slip through our fingers.’
Bartholomew held up his hand. He had heard a noise.
‘There cannot be anyone here,’ whispered Michael. ‘The work is finished. It should be empty.’
‘Well, it is not,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I can hear hammering inside the library.’
They crept forward, and saw a light gleaming in one of the upper windows. The front door was ajar, so they stepped inside and made for the stairs. Bartholomew’s boots made far too much noise on the wooden steps, but he was as silent as a mouse compared to Michael. Fortunately, the trespasser was more intent on his own work than creaks from the stairwell, and when they reached the room holding the libri distribuendi, they saw him busily defacing one of the carvings with a mallet. He had lit a candle to see what he was doing, and it illuminated a face filled with malicious savagery.
‘Browne!’ exclaimed Michael.
Browne spun around, drawing a knife and holding it in a way that showed he was ready to lob it. ‘You should not be here,’ he snarled.
‘Neither should you,’ retorted Michael. ‘We know what you have done – and I do not refer to your despoiling of Walkelate’s artwork. I mean murder.’
Bartholomew winced. It was no way to address an armed man. He fumbled in his medical bag for the childbirth forceps, but they were tangled in a bandage, and would not come free.
‘Drop your sack on the floor,’ ordered Browne immediately. ‘And put your hands in the air. Both of you. I am good with knives, and I have two of them. I will kill you if you disobey me.’