‘What testimony?’
‘She said the pond emits bad smells on certain nights – doubtless when Northwood and his helpmeets worked, producing stenches that people noticed. Cynric remarked on it, too. Red lead releases toxic fumes when it is heated. And the bowl that Meadowman dredged up – the one that rang like a bell – suggests the experimenters were boiling their concoctions …’
‘Could red lead in a basin that size produce enough fumes to kill four men?’
‘Yes. It is a pity anatomy is forbidden, because had I looked inside the bodies, we would have had answers days ago.’
‘No,’ said Michael, after reflecting for a moment. ‘Walkelate would not have tried to conceal what was essentially an accident. He would have reported it.’
‘And risked trouble for his beloved library? I think not!’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘As we have no better way forward, we shall explore your theory. The first step is to find Walkelate. I seriously doubt he would create wildfire to secure future funding for his library, but I will never sleep easy again if I am wrong and he sells it to the robbers.’
‘I hope we are not too late,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because I have an awful feeling it might feature in Browne’s “cataclysmic” event.’
Chapter 12
The residents of Cambridge were already up and about, many dressed in their best clothes. There was an atmosphere of excited anticipation, for the previous night’s rout had been hailed a success, and people were confident that the raiders would never dare return. Edith waved cheerfully to Bartholomew as she and her husband removed the boards that had covered their windows, while the head of the Frevill clan was ushering his family back into their home.
‘We received word during the night that the town had bloodied the robbers’ noses,’ said Edith, as Bartholomew skidded to a standstill. ‘So we decided to return.’
He was dismayed. ‘But one of our scholars heard the raiders talking, and they plan to strike again today. The danger is far from over!’
Stanmore waved a dismissive hand, and nodded that his wife should begin decorating the windowsills while he dealt with her agitated brother.
‘He probably heard that before we taught them a lesson in the High Street,’ he said with quiet reason. ‘They will not try a third time. They are not stupid, and will know when they are defeated.’
‘But they have not stolen the tax money yet,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They will not give up so easily when they have invested so much. Moreover, I think they intend to unleash a–’
‘Enough!’ said Stanmore sharply. He lowered his voice, so Edith would not hear. ‘It has been a dismal winter, and this is the first opportunity we have had to enjoy ourselves in months. Do not spoil it with your alarmist notions. There will be no raid today.’
There was no point arguing with such firmly held convictions. With one last, agonised glance at his sister, Bartholomew ran after Michael, who was aiming for King’s Hall in the hope that Walkelate’s colleagues would know where the architect was.
‘Walkelate is not here,’ said Shropham, when they were shown into his office. ‘He has been out all night, but we expected that – he is determined to have his library perfect for today.’
‘Where else might he be?’ demanded Michael.
‘There is nowhere else. The library has been his consuming passion these past few weeks. Of course, there is also his other obsession …’
‘What other obsession?’
‘He is fascinated with artillery and siege warfare, an interest that began at more or less the same time as that beggar was murdered – the one whose throat was cut.’
‘You think he is connected to the invaders?’ asked Michael, struggling to understand what he was being told.
‘Of course not.’ But the Warden’s eyes were uneasy. ‘Yet he has strong opinions …’
‘Shropham!’ shouted Michael in exasperation. ‘Please! We have told you why we need to find him, so do not make this more difficult. Or do you want King’s Hall blamed for whatever happens?’
‘No!’ Shropham was in an agony of conflicting loyalties. ‘Yet I fear Walkelate has done something terrible. About two months ago, he performed a lot of experiments that involved explosions and I had to order him to desist, because he was disturbing our students. I was relieved when the library began to take up more of his time, as I thought it would distract him …’
‘Did he work alone, or with others?’ asked Michael.
‘With Northwood and the Londons,’ replied Shropham. ‘And Vale the physician, too, I believe. They were also interested in alchemy.’
‘Walkelate lied,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, although the monk did not need to be told. ‘He did not stumble across Northwood and the others in Newe Inn – he took them there when King’s Hall became unavailable. Clippesby and Riborowe said they could not identify everyone who assembled in Cholles Lane before slipping into the garden. One of them must have been Walkelate.’
‘Hovering there with a key to let them in,’ finished Michael.
‘I think he has designed a new weapon,’ blurted Shropham. His face was ashen. ‘There were diagrams in his room … I was a soldier myself once, and his pictures look like modified ribauldequins to me. He spent hours discussing such devices with Holm and Riborowe, who were at Poitiers.’
Something dreadful occurred to Bartholomew. ‘Do you think he might have conceived one that can discharge wildfire? As matters stand, the stuff is not very easy to deploy, but if he has devised a contraption that can propel it into the ranks of the enemy …’
Shropham would not meet his eyes. ‘That is exactly what it looked like to me. But I am not too concerned, because no one knows the recipe for wildfire any more. It has been lost, thank God.’
‘The discharge of wildfire from a ribauldequin would certainly be cataclysmic,’ said Michael, exchanging an appalled glance with Bartholomew.
‘There is one more thing.’ Shropham’s expression was one of inner torment: it pained him to tell tales on a colleague. ‘I happened to glance in his room this morning. The drawings have gone.’
‘Why did you not tell us this immediately?’ demanded Michael, horrified.
‘Why would I? Sketching weapons is not illegal, and he has not actually done anything wrong.’
But Shropham did not look convinced by his own argument, and neither were Bartholomew and Michael. Without further ado, they left King’s Hall and hurried into the High Street, feeling that time was slipping inexorably away.
‘Walkelate has not gone to muster his artisans,’ said Bartholomew in despair. ‘He has gone to consort with the robbers – to give them what he has invented. Assuming he has not done so already.’
‘No,’ said Michael, albeit uncertainly. ‘There is nothing to connect him to them.’
‘Yes, there is. Browne heard the raiders talking in Cholles Lane – the place where Walkelate’s helpmeets assembled before they went to experiment. That cannot be a coincidence. Besides, why else would he have taken his diagrams?’
‘Even if you are right, drawings are not the same as an actual device,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He can sell his theory, but he cannot sell the weapon itself.’
‘Dick Tulyet has a ribauldequin,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘I saw it at the castle. Walkelate was one of several scholars who helped him design it.’
‘Then we need not worry,’ said Michael in relief. ‘If it is in the castle, then the invaders do not have it. And if a ribauldequin is the only way wildfire can be deployed, then they are foiled.’