‘She says they often met in Cholles Lane after dark,’ he went on. ‘Then they all slipped inside Newe Inn’s grounds together. But there were usually others with them.’
‘Who?’
‘She could not tell, because they were all cloaked and hooded. She cannot even say if they were men or women. She knows they took care to be quiet, though, and never let anyone see them.’
Cloaked and hooded, thought Bartholomew. Could they have included the three men who had attacked him the previous night? But virtually everyone in Cambridge possessed a cloak with a hood, and drawing conclusions from such attire was foolish and likely to be misleading.
‘I do not suppose she knows what these people did in Newe Inn, did she?’ he asked, although not with much hope. While Clippesby witnessed all manner of bizarre and inexplicable happenings, he was rarely moved to investigate them further. On the whole, Bartholomew was glad, because it might have been dangerous, and he was protective of the eccentric Dominican.
‘No. But it took them some time – they were gone for at least an hour. Sometimes longer.’
‘Were they in Newe Inn’s garden or in the house – the Common Library?’
Clippesby shrugged. ‘The rat cannot answer that, Matthew. All she saw was people entering the property via that little gate in the wall. She watched them gather on Tuesday night, in fact – Northwood, the Londons, Vale and one or two others. Incidentally, she has been watching Surgeon Holm, too. He has a lover, who visits him most evenings.’
‘Yes – Julitta Dunning. They are betrothed.’
‘They are betrothed,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But Julitta’s father would never allow his daughter to entertain him before they are married. Holm’s fancy is someone else.’
‘I do not want to know,’ said Bartholomew, holding up his hand. He had never liked gossip.
‘As you wish. But the rat will tell you, should you change your mind. She would like someone to warn Julitta, you see – to tell her that Holm will bring her pain if the marriage goes ahead. And I agree. As a priest, I could never sanction a union that will lead to such inevitable misery.’
As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew set his students an exercise to keep them busy while he went to St Mary the Great. He did not feel like examining bodies, and was developing a headache to go with his roiling stomach, so he only half listened to Michael talking about how he intended to solve the mystery surrounding the four deaths. However, he snapped into alertness when he became aware that the monk was making plans on his behalf.
‘I cannot help you, Brother,’ he objected. ‘My students are taking their final disputations soon, and they are not yet ready for–’
‘They are better prepared than any class in the University,’ countered Michael. ‘And if they are lacking in some vital area, it is too late to correct it now. You are not needed as they re-read the texts they have already studied, and your presence will only make them nervous. It would be kinder if you let them be.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Bartholomew, a little indignantly.
‘I mean that you have unreasonably high expectations, and the pressure may have an adverse effect. Let them revise without interference, and help me instead. It will be better for everyone.’
‘But–’
‘No buts, Matt. You have become a tyrant in the lecture hall, and it is time to stop. You cannot push them as hard as you push yourself.’
Bartholomew was about to deny the charge when he recalled that his students had accused him of intimidating them on occasion. Moreover, Michael was right in that there was no point in trying to teach them anything new now, and his senior students were more than capable of reading exemplars to the others. He supposed, reluctantly, that he could afford to let them relax a little.
‘If there was foul play, then I would like to see the killer brought to justice,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘I liked Northwood, and Vale was a colleague.’
‘You did not like Vale, too?’ pounced Michael, too astute not to notice the careful wording of his friend’s capitulation.
Bartholomew hesitated, but supposed Michael had a right to know his opinion of the man whose death he was going to explore. ‘I thought him unsuited to our profession. He lacked tact, and he behaved inappropriately with female patients.’
‘Did he?’ Michael was intrigued. ‘I know Edith said he made a nuisance of himself with her seamstresses, while Jorz claimed he laughed at an embarrassing ailment.’
‘He was more interested in devising a cure-all than in his patients,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘It meant he did not take the time to listen to their symptoms before prescribing a solution, and he sometimes made mistakes. He was not a very good physician.’
‘Well, we shall bear his failings in mind as we investigate. Of course, I still have Coslaye to consider, too. I promised to catch the villain who nearly killed him.’
‘I imagine that was an accident – the tome was thrown more in frustration than a serious attempt to wound. Besides, it was weeks ago. Any trail will be cold by now.’
‘It was cold before I started, or the villain would have been arrested already. However, a crime is a crime, and I am unwilling to forget that one. I do not want scholars thinking that St Mary the Great is a good venue for lobbing missiles at colleagues who make contentious remarks.’
‘It is fortunate that Coslaye has an unusually thick skull, or the blow would have killed him outright. Even so, I was afraid that he would not survive the surgery. He was very lucky.’
‘The collision damaged the book, too,’ recalled Michael. ‘Acton’s Questio Disputata. Not a great treatise, but respectable enough. I gave it to him once he was up and walking again, as compensation for all his suffering.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking this a little insensitive.
‘I thought he could sell it for– Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and he wears the expression that tells me something terrible has happened. Again.’
‘You are both needed at King’s Hall,’ announced Cynric. ‘Master Sawtre has had an accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’ asked Michael warily.
‘Apparently,’ replied Cynric, ‘he has been crushed under a bookcase.’
It was not far along the High Street to King’s Hall, Cambridge’s largest, richest and most prestigious College. It enjoyed the patronage of the King himself, and the sons of nobles were sent to it for their education. It was an impressive foundation, with a great gatehouse and powerful walls that would protect it from all but the most determined attacks – and as its ostentatious affluence was infuriating to many townsfolk, defence was a necessity. Behind the gate were several handsome accommodation blocks, an assortment of houses and a large hall for teaching.
A porter conducted Bartholomew and Michael to the building that housed the College’s collection of books. Somewhat unusually, King’s Hall had elected to store them in purpose-built, ceiling-high racks – most University foundations preferred their shelving to be nearer the ground for ease of access. The racks were heavy, especially when filled, and one had toppled forward, shooting its contents across the floor. All that could be seen of the man underneath was a hand. Bartholomew knelt quickly and felt for a life-beat, but the wrist was cold and dead.
At least twenty King’s Hall Fellows had gathered around the corpse in a mute semicircle. In the middle was their Warden, a timid, retiring gentleman, who struggled to control the large number of arrogant, wealthy young men under his supervision. Walkelate was there, too, tearful and frightened, and Bartholomew recalled that the architect and Sawtre were the only two members of King’s Hall who had voted in favour of the Common Library. He felt a twinge of unease, recalling what Deynman had said about dissenters being eliminated.