‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It all began in January, when a deputation of scholars from Oxford came and bragged about some experiments they were conducting. As you can imagine, our Regents hated the prospect of being outshone by the Other Place, so quite a number of them turned inventor.’
‘Is that what has prompted this recent spirit of enquiry?’ asked Edith, amused. ‘A desire not to be bested by academic rivals?’
‘Partly,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is also about being more attractive to benefactors and patrons. And about drawing the best students. Applications to study here have increased tenfold since some of our Regents have become alchemists.’
‘I imagine they have,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘These pupils all hope to be part of these discoveries, so they can claim a slice of the profits when they are sold. But to return to the bodies at Newe Inn, Weasenham told us that one had an arrow in its back, and–’
‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘Must he gossip about everything? Of course, he probably did not know then that two of his scribes are among the victims.’
‘That will make three of his scriveners dead in a single day,’ said Edith. ‘Poor Ruth! She was distressed about Adam, but she will be heartbroken over the London brothers. She was fond of them, because her husband tended to curtail his rumour-mongering when they were to hand.’
‘So once again our town is plagued by killers,’ said Stanmore bleakly, placing a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘I cannot imagine what it is about Cambridge that attracts them.’
‘Matt has not inspected the bodies yet,’ warned Michael. ‘And until he does, we cannot say that murder–’
‘Of course they were murdered,’ interrupted Stanmore scornfully. ‘A man cannot shoot himself in the back with an arrow. Nor do four men choose the same spot in which to dispatch themselves, while if it was an accident, you would have seen it straight away. They were unlawfully slain all right. Poor Northwood! And poor John and Philip London, too!’
‘What about poor Vale?’ asked Michael.
It was Edith who answered. ‘I shall pray for his soul, but I disliked him. He pestered my seamstresses relentlessly, and I had to order him to stay away from them in the end.’
‘He was sly, as well as a lecher,’ added Stanmore. ‘He tried to cheat me when I sold him some cloth, and I was incensed that he should consider me a fool.’
‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding,’ said Bartholomew, troubled by the remarks. ‘I am sure he would not have–’
‘Dear Matt,’ said Edith fondly, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘Always thinking well of even the most brazen of villains.’
‘Incidentally, I am pleased to hear that the Common Library is almost ready,’ said Stanmore. ‘I have it in mind to donate my collection of breviaries to the venture.’
‘But you have always said those would come to Michaelhouse,’ cried Michael in dismay.
‘I have changed my mind. Chancellor Tynkell has promised twice as many masses for my soul if I give them to him instead. It–’
‘Who is that?’ asked Bartholomew suddenly, pointing to where a man and a woman were walking together. He had seen them before, and there was something about the lady that reminded him of Matilde, the love of his life who had disappeared from Cambridge before he could ask her to marry him. That had been three years ago, almost to the day, and he had spent many months searching for her, but had finally resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. That did not mean he never thought about her, though, and the woman who walked along Milne Street bore an uncanny resemblance.
‘Sir Eustace Dunning and his younger daughter Julitta,’ replied Stanmore. ‘He is an influential member of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and thus a powerful voice in town affairs. You should know him, Matt – he was the one who gave Newe Inn to your University.’
‘Julitta,’ repeated Bartholomew, a little dreamily.
‘Sister to Weasenham’s wife Ruth,’ Stanmore went on. ‘You can see the likeness, with their fair skin and pretty eyes. And in their intelligence, too.’
‘Julitta is betrothed to Surgeon Holm,’ added Edith. ‘Although I cannot say I would like to marry a surgeon. They probably bring home some shocking stains.’
Dunning was a handsome man in his fifties, whose thick grey hair and matching beard made him appear venerable, like a modern-day Plato. He had fought in the Scottish wars, where his courage had earned him his spurs, and he had inherited a sizeable fortune from his father.
‘I am sorry my benefaction continues to cause strife, Brother,’ he said, as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘It was intended to please the University, not be a source of discord.’
Julitta laughed, a pleasant sound that reminded Bartholomew even more acutely of Matilde. His stomach lurched, and he could not stop staring at her. She had long, silky brown hair that she wore in a plait, and her slender figure was accentuated by the elegant cut of her kirtle. But it was her face that was her most striking feature. It was clear and sweet, and with the exception of Matilde, he could not ever recall seeing anyone so lovely.
‘What did you expect?’ she asked, eyes dancing. ‘Cambridge’s academics are clever men with strong opinions. I imagine any proposal will meet with opposition, no matter how kindly meant.’
‘True,’ admitted Michael grudgingly. ‘Of course, it is a pity the Carmelites and Batayl feel they have a right to Newe Inn. It would have been better had you donated a different building to the venture, and I understand you have plenty. Perhaps you will give us another.’
It was Dunning’s turn to laugh. ‘You scholars are never satisfied!’
‘On the contrary, we are very grateful,’ said Michael, although he failed to sound sincere. ‘But my point was that you had already promised–’
‘I promised nothing,’ interrupted Dunning wearily. ‘The White Friars and Batayl have been clamouring at me for months to give them Newe Inn, and in an effort to shut them up, I said I would consider their applications. Consider, not agree to them. And that is all.’
‘I suspect Principal Coslaye and Prior Etone embellished the tale because they want my father to withdraw his offer to establish a library,’ explained Julitta. ‘They are not naturally sly, but the issue seems to have made them extraordinarily excitable.’
‘We have just visited it,’ said Dunning with a sudden smile. ‘I go there as often as possible, to monitor progress. Walkelate is an impressive fellow; he vowed it would be ready by Corpus Christi, and I am beginning to think he will succeed.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. He did not add ‘more is the pity’, but it was evident in his tone.
‘Our scheme is a good one, Brother,’ insisted Dunning, hearing the censure. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell assures me that it will benefit all concerned, even those who object now. A lack of books prevents many scholars from achieving all they might. A library will help them, and earn your studium generale the respect and fame it deserves.’
‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Michael reluctantly. ‘But Tynkell’s motives for encouraging this scheme are not altruistic. He wants to be remembered after he retires next year.’
‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Julitta. ‘I understand he has done very little else during his tenure.’
‘The library will be a credit to you, Sir Eustace,’ said Bartholomew, finding his voice at last. ‘In fact, Kente has already made you immortal by carving your face on one of the lecterns.’