‘We could see that there was no need to pull Sawtre out quickly,’ said Warden Shropham, breaking into his troubled thoughts. ‘So we left everything as we found it, for you to …’
He trailed off, clearly distressed, and a brash scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic prowess was nowhere near as great as he thought it was, came to rest a kindly hand on his shoulder.
‘Sawtre was dusting the shelves,’ Dodenho explained. ‘Which was his particular responsibility. We heard a crash, and rushed in to see the bookcase had torn away from its moorings.’
He pointed, and Bartholomew and Michael both looked upwards. There were six sizeable holes in the wall, and when they glanced back to the bookcase, it was to see six corresponding nails jutting out from the back of it.
‘He must have tugged on it, reaching for the top shelf,’ said Walkelate, pale and shaking. ‘The floor is not very level, you see, and there was always a danger that this particular unit might topple.’
‘Then why did you not do something about it?’ asked Michael, prodding the floorboards with his toe. They were indeed uneven.
‘We were going to,’ said Shropham wretchedly. ‘At the end of term, when our students have finished their disputations. Mending it will be noisy, and we wanted to avoid needless disturbance at such a stressful time.’
A number of Fellows stepped forward to lift the rack, eager to play their part for a fallen comrade. It was extremely weighty, and required every one of them. Once it was upright, Bartholomew began removing the books that covered Sawtre’s body, picking them up carefully and handing them to Dodenho, who piled them neatly and lovingly to one side.
Despite the fact that his mind should have been on the duties for which he was being paid, the physician noticed that King’s Hall had some unusual and beautiful volumes, including several on medicine that he had never read. He wondered if Shropham would grant him access to them, but then thought that he might not have to ask if the Common Library lived up to expectations.
‘I wonder if it is divine justice,’ mused Dodenho, brushing dust from Dante’s Inferno. ‘Sawtre voted inappropriately at the Convocation, and now he is dead in the very library he wronged.’
‘He did not wrong this library,’ objected Walkelate. He sounded dispirited: like Bartholomew, he was tired of repeating himself to colleagues who were so vehemently and immovably opposed to his point of view. ‘He supported the founding of a central repository because he felt poor scholars deserve access to books, too.’
‘You would say that,’ muttered Dodenho. ‘You voted with him – against our Warden’s orders.’
‘Actually, I told everyone to act as his conscience dictated,’ said Shropham quietly.
‘Quite,’ said Dodenho. ‘My conscience would never let me do anything to harm King’s Hall.’
Other Fellows joined the discussion, but Bartholomew was not listening – he had finally moved enough books to allow him to examine the body. He was vaguely aware of the debate growing acrimonious, and of Michael standing silently to one side, drawing his own conclusions from who said what, but his own attention was on Sawtre.
‘He was crushed,’ he said, eventually finishing his examination and standing up. Immediately, the squabbling stopped and the men of King’s Hall eased closer to hear his verdict. ‘The bookcase landed squarely on his chest, and its weight snapped the ribs beneath. These pierced his lungs. I imagine death came very quickly.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ said Shropham, crossing himself.
Walkelate began to sob, so Dodenho put an arm around his shoulders and led him away, leaving the remaining Fellows to discuss what had happened in shocked whispers.
‘Was it a mishap, Matt?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Or did one of Sawtre’s “grieving” colleagues arrange an accident in order to punish him for dissenting?’
‘They seem genuinely distressed to me,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And there is nothing on the body to suggest foul play – no sign that Sawtre was forced to stand under the case while it was toppled, or that he was incapacitated while the deed was done.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘But he makes five Regents dead who voted in favour of the Common Library. If we held a second ballot now, the grace would be repealed.’
‘Then it is just as well a second ballot is not in the offing,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Newe Inn is almost ready, and there would be a riot if you abandoned the project at this late hour.’
‘I have a bad feeling we shall have one of those anyway. Its more rabid detractors will not let the opening ceremonies pass off without incident.’
There was no more to be done at King’s Hall, so Bartholomew wrapped Sawtre’s body, ready to be carried to the church, and followed Michael towards the gate. Shropham accompanied them.
‘I know how this looks,’ he said, when there was no one to overhear. ‘Sawtre went against his colleagues, and now he is dead. However, it was an accident.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yet you cannot deny that there was ill feeling among the Fellowship towards him. And despite what you said in the library, I am sure you must have made it perfectly clear how you wanted them all to vote.’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Shropham tiredly. ‘I am not a despot. I instructed every man to act as he thought appropriate. I imagine you did the same at Michaelhouse.’
‘Actually, I told my colleagues to oppose the grace with every fibre of their being,’ replied Michael. He glanced coolly at Bartholomew. ‘But not all of them obeyed.’
‘It must be awkward for Walkelate here,’ said Bartholomew, pitying the kindly architect for the uncomfortable position he occupied, especially now he had lost Sawtre’s support. ‘He not only voted for the library, but he is the one fitting it out.’
Shropham sighed. ‘Well, if we must have the wretched place, it is only right that the University’s best architect should design it. Walkelate produced a book-depository for the King, you know, in Westminster.’
‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘Are there many books in the royal collections?’
Shropham gave one of his sad smiles. ‘None that will interest you, Matthew. They nearly all pertain to law and property.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So how did Walkelate come to be chosen for such a task?’
‘Because his father is the King’s sergeant-at-arms,’ explained Shropham. ‘So Walkelate is known at Court, and the Lord Chancellor is a great admirer of his work.’
‘You mean his father is a soldier?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael shot him a patronising look. ‘It is an honorific post, Matt. They see to ceremonials and the like. It has nothing to do with warfare.’
‘Although Walkelate did receive knightly training in his youth,’ added Shropham. ‘But like most of us, that was rather a long time ago.’
Once out of King’s Hall, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their walk to St Mary the Great, and it was not long before they reached its bright splendour. Sunlight filtered through its stained-glass windows, casting bright flecks of colour on the stone floor, and there was a pleasant aroma of incense and from the greenery that bedecked its windowsills.
The four bodies had been placed in the Lady Chapel, where they lay in a line on the floor, each covered with a blanket. Water had seeped from them during the night, leaving puddles. Michael watched Bartholomew remove the cover from the first victim, but promptly disappeared on business of his own when the physician began his examination by prising open the corpse’s mouth. As Senior Proctor, he had an office in one of the aisles – larger and better furnished than the one occupied by the Chancellor, as befitted his status as the University’s most powerful scholar – and it was a far nicer place to be than watching his Corpse Examiner at work.