‘What, now?’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It is getting late and I am tired.’
‘Yes, now,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Who knows what damage the man might do if we delay?’
On warm summer evenings, the University stationer could usually be found sitting on the bench outside his shop, enjoying the fading daylight and devising salacious and invariably fictitious tales about passers-by. He was there that night, Ruth on one side, and Bonabes on the other. He was uncharacteristically subdued, though, while Bonabes was pale and Ruth had been crying.
‘Is it true?’ asked the Exemplarius, coming quickly to his feet as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘You found Philip and John London in Newe Inn’s pond?’
Michael nodded. ‘News travels fast, it seems.’
‘We heard it from one of your beadles,’ explained Weasenham. ‘It is a wretched shame, especially after poor Adam. I know scribes are ten a penny in Cambridge, where every other man you meet can write, and I shall have no trouble finding replacements. But I liked Adam and the London brothers.’
‘We shall all miss them,’ added Ruth in a small voice. ‘Philip and John were so …’ She trailed off, unable to speak.
‘Calm,’ supplied Bonabes. ‘When business was frantic, with everyone screaming at us for completed exemplars, they soothed hot tempers with quiet words.’ He shot Weasenham a pointed glance. ‘And they were always quick to point out the undesirability of gossip.’
‘They were sanctimonious in that respect,’ nodded Weasenham. ‘And I am not a gossip. I just like to share what I know with other people.’
‘You gossiped to Browne about the Carmelites buying land from the University,’ said Michael.
‘I never did,’ declared Weasenham, although his eyes were furtive, while Ruth and Bonabes exchanged a pained glance that made it clear the stationer was lying.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Michael was exasperated and angry. ‘You know how irate our scholars get over anything to do with the Common Library.’
‘That is hardly my fault,’ said Weasenham defensively. ‘And I had the tale on good authority, anyway – Tynkell came to my shop this morning, and I heard him tell Sawtre that Newe Inn’s garden will be worth a lot of money one day, because it is strategically sited near the town centre.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘That is hardly the same as Tynkell saying he will sell it to the Carmelites.’
‘Of course he will sell it to the Carmelites,’ said Weasenham irritably. ‘They want it, and will pay above the odds to get it. Of course the University will trade with them. It is a matter of logic.’
‘It is an erroneous assumption that caused a quarrel,’ said Michael sternly.
Weasenham’s eyes brightened. ‘Really? Was there any violence? But of course there was, and I am not surprised. The Batayl men are fierce and aggressive, while that Browne is a nasty–’
‘There was no violence,’ interrupted Bartholomew hastily, appalled by the way Michael’s words were being twisted.
Ruth took Weasenham’s hand. ‘Please, husband. The Carmelites are good men. They do not deserve to be set at odds with Batayl.’
‘They are good men,’ admitted Weasenham. ‘Although I cannot say I like Riborowe and Jorz. Whenever they come to my shop, I am always under the impression that they are spying.’
‘Spying?’ asked Michael warily. ‘On what?’
‘On our paper-making experiments,’ explained Bonabes. ‘They run a scriptorium, so any advances in the manufacture of writing materials is of interest to them.’
‘Of course, spying will do them no good now the London brothers have gone,’ said Weasenham gloomily. ‘They were the ones who enjoyed meddling with dangerous substances, and the rest of us do not really know what we are doing. Perhaps we had better give up now that they are no longer here to guide us.’
‘No,’ said Bonabes. There was a catch in his voice. ‘They worked hard on this, and succeeding meant a lot to them. So I shall continue their endeavours, in my own time, if necessary. And when I learn how to do it, I shall name the paper-making process after them.’
Weasenham’s sly features softened. ‘There is no need to use your own time,’ he said, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. ‘You are right: they did work hard to succeed, and it would be a pity to let their labours go to waste. We shall all help you finish what they started.’
Bonabes turned away at his master’s unexpected and uncharacteristic kindness, and Ruth began to cry again. Bartholomew and Michael left Weasenham trying ineptly to comfort them.
They had not taken many steps towards Michaelhouse when they were intercepted by Meadowman, Michael’s favourite beadle, who had come to say that a quarrel had broken out between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel, and the Senior Proctor’s presence was needed to soothe the situation.
‘They are arguing over the library,’ Meadowman explained, rolling his eyes. ‘Again. Apparently, Master Heltisle made some remark about the grace being passed by ignorant ruffians, and Essex took exception. I wish the Chancellor had never had the stupid idea in the first place.’
‘You are not alone,’ muttered Michael, as they hurried away together.
When they had gone, Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go home, despite his weariness. He was unsettled by the events of the day, and suspected he would not sleep if he went to bed anyway. Besides, he felt a certain obligation to tell his medical colleagues in person that Vale was dead, so he began to walk towards Bridge Street, to the home of John Meryfeld, which had become the meeting place of the Cambridge medici in their quest for steady-burning lamp fuel. They had planned to resume their experiments that evening, and Bartholomew had been sorry that his duties as Corpse Examiner had prevented him from joining them.
He made his way past the jumble of alleys known as the Old Jewry, where Matilde had lived, and entered Bridge Street. A breeze was blowing from the east, carrying with it the scent of the Fens – stagnant water, rotting vegetation and wet earth. It was a smell he had known since childhood, and one he found curiously comforting and familiar. Then there was a breath of sweetness from some honeysuckle, followed by a rather unpleasant waft from a latrine that needed emptying.
He arrived at Meryfeld’s house and knocked on the door, hoping it was not too late and his colleagues would still be there. Since beginning their quest the previous winter, the physicians had met at least once a week, and he had come to enjoy the sessions, despite their lack of progress. They were opinionated and dogmatic, and Bartholomew would never share his more novel theories with them, but he had come to accept their idiosyncrasies – and they his – and they had all gradually adopted attitudes of comradely tolerance.
Meryfeld’s plump face broke into a happy grin of welcome when he opened his door. He was always smiling, and had a habit of rubbing his hands together when he spoke. He was not the cleanest of men, and his affable, pleasant manner concealed an intensely acquisitive core, but Bartholomew liked him anyway.
‘Hah!’ Meryfeld exclaimed. ‘We thought you were not coming. Vale did not arrive, either, so we assumed that you must have received summonses from patients. Come in, come in.’
His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’s faith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.