Bartholomew inspected them quickly. ‘Chickens and geese, Brother, from the tavern’s table. And one or two cats that must have tried to catch the fish and tumbled in. The sides of the pond are steep, and if the water was low, it might be difficult to climb out again.’
‘No, the evil faeries had them,’ countered Cynric matter-of-factly. ‘Cats have excellent balance, and do not fall into pools while hunting. And even if they did, they can swim.’
‘Normally, I would ask you to examine these bodies – the human ones, I mean – immediately,’ said Michael, ignoring him and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are all tired, so it can wait. My beadles will take them to St Mary the Great, and you can look at them tomorrow, when inconsiderate book-bearers are not making unsettling remarks about demonic spirits and the like.’
‘But it is true,’ objected Cynric, stung. ‘I told you this garden had a sinister aura, and the presence of corpses here proves it.’
‘I had better do it now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tale is already out that bodies have been found, and people have gathered in the lane outside, clamouring to know names. Apparently, several people have gone missing over the last few weeks, and their loved ones are eager for answers. Perhaps, like Browne, these four had a penchant for Newe Inn’s fish.’
‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘One careless poacher might have fallen in, or even two, but not more.’
Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the first. The body was fresh, and he doubted it had been immersed for more than a day. He inspected it quickly.
‘There is no sign of a slit throat. Or any other wound for that matter, although I will look more carefully tomorrow.’
Michael frowned. ‘A slit throat?’
‘Like the beggar, Tulyet’s night-watchman and Adam,’ explained Bartholomew. He shrugged at the monk’s bemused expression. ‘You are right in that four people are unlikely to have died of natural causes here, so unless we have two killers on the loose …’
‘But Dick said the others were probably executed because they saw smugglers. Smugglers will not be operating in the grounds of Newe Inn, so the two cases cannot possibly be connected.’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He stared at the corpse’s unfamiliar features. Its clothes indicated a man of some substance, because they were of excellent quality and almost new. The same was true of the next victim, who bore an uncanny likeness to the first. Both had deeply ink-stained fingers.
‘Have any brothers been reported missing?’ he asked. ‘Clerks, perhaps, or scribes?’
‘Yes – and you were there when it happened.’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Philip and John London, who work in the stationer’s shop. Weasenham mentioned they were late for work today.’
‘He also said they were members of Batayl,’ said Bartholomew, glancing in its direction. ‘Which lies next door, and whose scholars raised the alarm about a corpse here.’
‘Not these corpses, though. They were underwater, and invisible until you stirred them up.’
‘Are these the London brothers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I never met them.’
Michael peered at them. ‘Yes, more is the pity. They have helped Weasenham quietly and efficiently ever since the Death.’
The plague that had scoured the civilised world, killing entire communities in a matter of days, had been such a terrible experience that people nearly always used it to refer to events in the past – everything was either before the Death or after it. Bartholomew covered the brothers, and removed the blanket that had been placed over the next victim.
‘Northwood!’ he exclaimed in horror. He looked up at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘He is the Carmelite who voted in favour of the Common Library – against the wishes of his colleagues. I liked him, Brother. He gave my fellow medici and me some helpful advice about developing our clean-burning lamp fuel.’
‘I knew him only by reputation – for his lively mind and interest in alchemy. Who is the last?’
Bartholomew pulled the cover from the fourth body, and pushed the sodden hair away from its face. It was the one with the arrow in its back. He recoiled with shock a second time.
‘It is Vale,’ he said in a voice that was not quite steady. ‘The Gonville Hall physician. No wonder he was not at the Convocation earlier! His colleagues mentioned his absence, if you recall.’
‘Vale?’ echoed Michael. ‘But this makes no sense! What do a friar, two scriveners and a medicus have in common?’
Bartholomew did not know, but the day seemed suddenly colder and darker.
Dismayed and saddened by what he had seen, Bartholomew was tempted to ignore Michael’s recommendation to leave the examinations until the following morning, and do it straight away. But he had been up most of the previous night with a patient and knew better than to undertake such an important task when his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep. He followed Michael and Cynric through the garden to the small gate that led into Cholles Lane.
‘Walkelate and his craftsmen were no help,’ said Michael, once he had reported what little he knew about the victims to the anxious crowd outside, and was walking away. ‘The pond cannot be seen from the house, and neither can the gate. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, despite the fact that they work on that accursed building all the hours God gives.’
‘I will ask around,’ offered Cynric. ‘Someone will have noticed something peculiar, because four men do not die with no witnesses.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said the monk fervently. ‘Do you mind starting now?’
Because it was a pretty evening, the streets were busy, and Michael and Bartholomew met a number of people they knew as they walked to Michaelhouse, some enjoying a relaxing stroll and others going home after work. The physician’s sister and her husband were among the former. They were deep in conversation, and Edith’s worried frown deepened when she saw her brother.
‘We were just talking about your grisly discovery at Newe Inn, Matt,’ she said sympathetically. ‘The tale is already all over the town. It must have been horrible for you.’
‘Do you know the names of the victims yet?’ Oswald Stanmore was a wealthy cloth merchant, a handsome, grey-haired man with a neat beard and fine clothes.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers.’
Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Not Northwood! He was a lovely man, and often came to our house to talk about cloth-dyeing. He was interested in such things.’
‘He was,’ agreed Stanmore, shaken. ‘He liked anything to do with mixing different ingredients together, and recommended several improvements that saved me a lot of money. He was interested in your efforts to create a clean-burning lamp, Matt, and wanted to be part of it.’
Bartholomew nodded again. ‘Unfortunately, Rougham and Holm will only experiment with other medici, and refused his offer. It was a pity, because I think he would have been useful.’
‘He would,’ whispered Cynric to Michael. ‘And they should have accepted his help, because they are making scant progress on their own. Personally, I suspect they will never succeed.’
‘I wish you would hurry up with it, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘I should like to be able to work winter nights without straining my eyes. So would many other folk, and I predict your non-flickering lamp will make you very rich, although I know money is not what drives you.’
Bartholomew did not reply. He was feeling despondent, partly because he hated to admit that several months of experiments had produced nothing worthwhile, but mostly because of what had happened to Vale and Northwood.
‘It seems to me that half of Cambridge is busy trying to invent something at the moment,’ said Edith. ‘The medici with clean-burning fuel, Northwood with dyes, the Carmelites with ink, Weasenham with paper-making, to name but a few.’