‘The arrow,’ pounced Michael. ‘Perhaps they were forced to jump into the pond.’
‘Then they would have drowned, which they did not. However, you are right in that it means someone else was there when they died – someone who put their corpses in the water. And Clippesby saw them enter the garden with one or two other people …’
‘And other people, at least one of whom was armed with a bow, means murder.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I am afraid you will have to ask the culprits how they dispatched their victims, because your Corpse Examiner cannot do it.’
‘I shall,’ determined Michael. ‘Your point about a message left with friends is an interesting concept, though. We shall spend the rest of the morning questioning those who knew them best.’
‘You did not do that last night after leaving Weasenham?’
‘No – I was busy quelling a fight between Bene’t College and Essex Hostel over the Common Library. So first we shall visit Weasenham’s shop, to ask about the London brothers. Then Gonville Hall to enquire after Vale. And finally the Carmelite Friary regarding Northwood.’
Bartholomew fell into step at his side, and they walked along the High Street to the stationer’s premises. It was full of activity as usual, crammed with scholars and clerks, some trying to read the exemplars without paying for them, some passing the time of day with friends, and others queuing up to be served. Weasenham was with a customer, so Bartholomew and Michael were obliged to wait. While they did so, the monk took a leaf out of Weasenham’s book, and began to gossip.
‘Our stationer did well when he married Ruth Dunning.’
‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was more interested in Weasenham’s wares, wishing he had funds to spare. He needed more parchment for the treatise on fevers he was writing, and he was running low on ink, too. Unfortunately, any money he earned was needed to buy medicine for those of his patients who could not afford it themselves, and luxuries like writing equipment were currently beyond his means.
‘Oh, yes. Dunning will invest handsomely in the business now, which will allow Weasenham to expand. In fact, I think he already has, because look at the number of books that are on sale today. He never had that many in the past. He even has Augustine’s De Trinitate!’
‘And Dioscorides’s De Materia Medica.’ Bartholomew was impressed. ‘I have not seen that in its entirety for years. Perhaps this copy is destined for the Common Library, and I shall be able to read it. Or maybe Holm will give me five marks, so I can buy it for myself.’
‘Five marks? Why would he give you such an enormous sum?’
‘When he learns that Isnard and the riverfolk are not killers and smugglers,’ replied Bartholomew. He shrugged when he saw Michael’s mystified expression. ‘He irritated me into agreeing a wager.’
‘But you do not have five marks!’ cried Michael. ‘And you will certainly need it, because Isnard is a scoundrel, and you are a fool if you think him untarnished. And as for the riverfolk …’
‘Yes, but they do not kill,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘And I do not believe they are connected with the smugglers Dick Tulyet is hunting, either.’
‘We had better speak to Weasenham,’ said Michael, declining to argue. ‘He is still busy, but I cannot wait here all day. Who knows what else you may do or say to shock me in the interim?’
Weasenham was at the front of his shop, standing behind a table as he demonstrated to a group of fascinated scribes why quills made from swan feathers were better than those from geese. His audience comprised mostly friars who worked in the Carmelites’ scriptorium, and included Riborowe and Jorz. He was being assisted by his wife and his Exemplarius.
‘Two birds with one stone,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘You can quiz the White Friars about Northwood at the same time.’
‘No – it is better to tackle them separately. Look at Jorz’s hands! Are they stained with blood? We had better loiter behind these shelves for a while. We could learn a lot by eavesdropping.’
‘… did not succeed,’ Jorz was twittering to Weasenham. ‘I tried adding red lead, to see if that would help, but the ink took just as long to dry. How goes your paper-making?’
‘We have done nothing since we heard that John and Philip London …’ Bonabes swallowed hard. ‘We shall start experimenting again after their funerals.’
The birdlike Jorz crossed himself. ‘Perhaps we should suspend our work until after our brother Northwood is buried, as a mark of respect. What do you think, Riborowe?’
‘Why?’ asked Riborowe. ‘He voted against our Prior’s orders in the matter of the Common Library, and I have still not forgiven him for it.’
‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Weasenham in a conspiratorial voice, while the other Carmelites gaped their shock at Riborowe’s unfeeling remark. ‘About the murder of Sawtre in King’s Hall? Someone pushed a heavy bookcase on top of him, and–’
‘Warden Shropham said it was an accident,’ interrupted Bonabes. ‘He stated quite firmly that Sawtre tugged on a piece of furniture that was notoriously unstable.’
‘Well, he would,’ said Weasenham maliciously. ‘But I know better. Sawtre was killed because he voted against his College. King’s Hall does not take kindly to treachery.’
‘That is untrue!’ cried Ruth. ‘Sawtre was–’
‘Tell me what you know about the Newe Inn murders,’ said Weasenham, cutting across her to address the Carmelites, all of whom were regarding him with contempt. They exchanged pained glances at the mention of the place where one of their brethren had died.
‘We know nothing at all,’ replied Jorz. ‘A beadle came last night to report Northwood’s death, but he was unable to tell us how or why it had happened. And since then, Prior Etone has kept us too busy saying masses for Northwood’s soul to ask questions.’
‘And busy making ink, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. Michael jabbed him with his elbow, warning him to be quiet.
‘Does Northwood’s soul need prayers, then?’ fished Weasenham. ‘I imagine it does – I have heard tales about him.’
Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm as the physician began to step forward, unwilling to stand by while a man he had liked was maligned.
‘Northwood was a hard taskmaster to the novices under his care,’ Jorz was saying icily, while behind his back several of the younger friars exchanged glances that indicated this was an understatement. ‘But he was honest and fair. There will be no “tales” about him.’
‘Oh, yes, there will,’ said Weasenham smugly. ‘Because he was a thief.’
Michael’s grip intensified when Bartholomew started forward a second time. ‘Wait!’ he hissed. ‘Thelnetham said much the same, and I want to hear what Weasenham has to say.’
‘Husband, please,’ begged Ruth. ‘Northwood is dead, and it is not nice to speak ill of him.’
‘I speak as I find,’ snapped Weasenham, displeased by the admonition. ‘There is a ridiculous tendency in this town to think that anyone who dies before his time was a saint. Well, Northwood did some very devious things, and the fact that he suffered a premature end does not change that.’
‘And what did he do, exactly?’ asked Jorz, frost in his voice.
Well,’ began Weasenham, delighted to be asked, ‘it involves the exemplars your novices prepare in the scriptorium.’
‘The Carmelites do not produce exemplars,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew, bemused. ‘They create beautiful works of art – bibles, prayer books and psalters.’
‘Exercise pieces.’ Riborowe’s expression was as puzzled as Michael’s. ‘To allow them to hone their skills. It was my idea: I remember from my own noviciate how disheartening it was to produce texts that no one ever looked at, so I decided that they should copy parts of great theological works instead. Then we can sell them to you, and the money covers the cost of the materials they use, with a little left over for the poor. But why do you–’