"True, he possessed a stolen book, but was he one who would despoil another? You said he was not."
"So I thought. Been wrong before."
"Perhaps, but there is much about this business which rings a false note."
"How so?"
"There are yet twenty-one books missing. No man could carry off twenty-two books from Canterbury Hall by himself."
"So he made off with a book to sell to his own profit, an' his fellows learned of it an' slew him."
"That could be how it was," I agreed. "But I think it sure that possession of Master Wyclif's book caused Salley's death. You should take care. Those who took his life might trace the book here. They have killed once for it. They might be willing to do so again."
Stelle blanched at this thought and glanced to the workroom door. His daughter had disappeared but I could read his thoughts. Children are a great joy; also a great worry.
"How did Bess come to meet Robert Salley?"
Stelle was silent for a time, then spoke hesitantly. "Bess was comin' back from the baker with loaves for the day. A company of young scholars began to follow… an' taunt her. She's no beauty, I know that well enough. One of the lads took no part an' finally spoke up for her. Made the others stop, Bess said, and walked with her to the shop to see they didn't start in again."
"This was Robert Salley?"
"Aye."
"Would a lad so troubled by those who would hector a maid then commit an injustice himself? Stealing another's books does not fit the character of such a fellow."
I might have added that Robert Salley's appearance may have led to his also receiving mocking words. Perhaps he came to the maid's aid because he had been jeered in similar fashion.
"I was ready to think ill of a dead man who cannot defend himself. You think then he was no felon?"
"He possessed a stolen book, which he would have sold. Perhaps he knew the book was stolen, perhaps not. I think he knew… mayhap not at first, but when I pursued him from the stationer's shop on the Holywell Street he must soon after have known what he possessed."
"Then where did he come by the book?"
"The very question I asked. And did another want the book so badly they would do murder for it?"
"'Tis but a book," the cordwainer sighed. "Surely not worth a man's life."
"The book? No. But the circumstances of Robert Salley's possession of it… that might be worth a life. To someone it was."
Two days past I had but to seek stolen books. Now a corpse lay across my way. I believed that solving Robert Salley's murder might set me on the path to Master John's books. I resolved to begin the work promptly. But first I would seek a belly full of pottage at Canterbury Hall.
11
The scholars had finished their meal when I entered the hall. I had always imagined some disdain in their eyes. I was but a bailiff, and a surgeon, not a physician. But this day I felt a new respect. They knew I had recovered one of the stolen volumes. My new-found status might have been severely reduced had they known the part simple good fortune played in the discovery. Or perhaps it was God's doing. Master John would say so.
I saw no gain in sending Arthur back to prowl the streets about St Ebbe's Church and the Red Dragon. I bid him accompany me and after dinner we set off for the Canditch Street and Balliol College. I sought the four scholars who carried Robert to his grave. There was, I believed, more to learn from them than I had thought a few hours before.
Our arrival at Balliol College was fortuitous. As we drew near I saw the scholar to whom Salley had owed four pence departing the place. I hailed the youth and he paused to allow us to approach.
East of Balliol on the Canditch there is a tavern where scholars often gather. I invited the lad to enjoy a cup of wine with me. He was pleased to do so, as I knew he would be. I was once a Balliol scholar. I know how such fellows think.
The tavern was quiet. There were few patrons at such an hour. I motioned to a wine-stained table and, cups in hand, Arthur, I, and the scholar sat on benches about it.
"You have lost four pence," I began.
"Aye. Dead men pay no debts."
"I have learned some things about Robert Salley this day, and about you."
" " Me?
"You and your friends. Robert Salley's friends. He did not seek other lodging only to preserve his meager funds, did he?"
The youth did not reply, but I said no more. I have learned that those who own a troubled conscience dislike an uneasy silence and may soon fill it with words. I was not mistaken.
"Robert was annoyed with us, 'tis true."
"You maligned his appearance and his poverty 'til he could bear no more, is this not so?"
"'Twas all in jest," the youth agreed softly. "He laughed with us."
"His heart did not laugh with his lips."
"Nay. We saw that when he left us to seek other lodging."
"But it was your belittling the lass that finally drove him away, was it not?"
The youth was silent again. He had not touched his wine. He looked from me to Arthur as if seeking comfort. He found none.
"We did not guess he fancied the maid."
"Would you have chosen your words with more care had you known?"
"Aye. We did not purpose to be cruel."
I made no reply. Perhaps this assertion was true, perhaps not. I had other concerns. "Have you and your friends thought about who might have wished to murder Salley?"
"We spoke much about this long into the night. He was not the kind to make enemies. He would challenge us only when we made sport of the lass. He moved to other lodgings rather than dispute with us."
"He was in possession of one of Master John Wyclif's stolen books."
"Robert?" the scholar exclaimed.
"The book was returned to its owner this day. There can be no doubt. Before your words drove Salley away, did he speak of fear for his safety?"
"Nay." The youth finally took a swallow from his cup. "'Twas the opposite. Seemed sure of his future. Was to renew his studies next term. And spoke to me but a few days past of paying what he owed."
"When death came upon him he was unprepared?"
"Aye, so we believe."
I learned nothing from the conversation but that the young can be cruel and thoughtless. I knew that already. I was once young. I drank the last of my wine, bid the youth good day, and motioned for Arthur to follow. We left the scholar staring over his half-empty cup.
My mind turned to the small chest I had seen in Robert Salley's chamber. Rather than return to Canterbury Hall, I told Arthur we would once again seek the Red Dragon. The place was as bereft of custom as the tavern on the Canditch we had recently visited.
The scrawny proprietor sat where I had last seen him, his elbows on a crude table. He peered from me to Arthur with curiosity. He had seen both of us in his tavern, but not together. He croaked a greeting and asked did we seek wine.
"Nay. The young scholar who lodged with you, Robert Salley, is dead. Have you been told?"
"Aye. The young gentleman who sought 'im two days past was here 'bout the sixth hour. Told me the lad was murdered an' the sheriff would have his goods, to see could anything be learned from what 'e owned."
"There was little in his chamber but an old chest."
"That was all the fellow took. Just the chest."
I thanked the man for his time. I needed no more wine this day, a thing which the tavern keeper's expression indicated was a disappointment to him. It was also to Arthur, I think.
So the sheriff knew that Robert Salley was murdered and Sir Simon used the knowledge to claim Salley's chest. Yet other of the sheriff's men told John Stelle that the poor scholar drowned in the Cherwell. There was much amiss here.
I had seen nothing in the decaying chest but worn and tattered clothing, so could not say if some other thing might have lain below the garments. Sir Simon Trillowe thought so, else why claim the old chest. But it was sure twenty-one books were not hid beneath the clothing in the chest.