‘I hope Adam’s death will not prove to be too time-consuming,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘The new library is due to open a week tomorrow – on the Feast of Corpus Christi – and I have my hands full trying to keep the peace. Not to mention Coslaye.’
‘Coslaye?’ queried Tulyet.
‘The Principal of Batayl Hostel, who was very nearly killed when someone lobbed a book during the last Convocation. Murder might not have been the culprit’s intention, but it was a wicked thing to do regardless, and he needs to be caught.’
‘I will find out what happened to Adam,’ offered Tulyet. ‘You have helped me often enough in the past, and I am already investigating two similar crimes. I shall bring his killer to justice.’
Michael smiled gratefully. He and the Sheriff had always enjoyed a good relationship, and there was rarely any squabbling over jurisdiction. ‘But you must be busy, too, Dick. The town celebrates this particular festival in style, so you will have pageants to organise, miracle plays to commission …’
‘The Guild of Corpus Christi is managing all that this year,’ replied the Sheriff. ‘The only pressing matter I have at the moment is the King’s taxes – mostly collected and counted, but still requiring a mound of documentation before they can be sent to London. It is tedious work, and at the risk of sounding callous, hunting killers is a welcome diversion.’
‘I hope you catch them,’ said Bartholomew, folding the corpse’s hands across its chest and closing its eyes. ‘Because Adam was little more than a child – too young to die.’
‘You say he was a scribe?’ asked Tulyet.
Bartholomew nodded, recalling what the lad had told him when they had met. ‘The University stationer, John Weasenham, hired him, because he can … he could write extremely fast.’
‘Weasenham produces anthologies of set texts called “exemplars”,’ elaborated Michael, when Tulyet’s puzzled expression showed that he did not understand why this should be important. ‘Which students then hire. They are in constant demand, so speedy scribes are essential.’
‘The Carmelite Priory has a scriptorium,’ said Tulyet. ‘Perhaps the friars there will help to produce these exemplars until Adam can be replaced.’
‘No – the Carmelites produce fine books and illustrated manuscripts,’ explained Michael with a tolerant smile at such ignorance. ‘They are wholly different undertakings. And if you want an analogy, compare that donkey over there with your best warhorse.’
‘Adam wanted to join the Carmelites,’ said Bartholomew, sorry the youngster had not lived to realise his ambitions. ‘He told me that writing was his life.’
‘Then I had better set about finding out who killed him,’ said Tulyet quietly.
‘And I had better break the news to Weasenham,’ added Michael reluctantly. ‘I shall do it the moment the Convocation is over.’
Although it was not long past dawn, the sun had already burned away the early morning mist, and it promised to be a fine day. The sky was a clear, unbroken blue for the first time in weeks, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he and Michael left the riverbank. The ever-present stench of animal dung and human waste was dominant, but the sweeter scent of flowers and grass lay beneath them. Summer had arrived at last.
The previous winter had been long and hard, and although they had seen little snow, a series of fierce frosts had claimed a number of Bartholomew’s more vulnerable patients. There had been starvation, too, because the harvest had failed, and even the alms dispensed by the convents had not been enough to save some folk from an early grave. The town had celebrated with foolish abandon when the first blossoms had appeared on the trees, relieved beyond measure at this sign that the weather was finally beginning to relinquish its icy hold.
The quickest way to St Mary the Great from the river was via Cholles Lane, a narrow alley bounded on one side by the high wall that surrounded the Carmelite Priory, and a row of houses on the other. There were only three buildings of note. First was the shabby hostel run by Principal Coslaye, which he called Batayl; next was Newe Inn, the former tavern that was being converted into the Common Library; and the last was a pretty cottage occupied by Will Holm the surgeon, who had arrived two months before – on Easter Day – to set up practice in the town.
‘I see work is proceeding apace on Newe Inn,’ said Bartholomew conversationally, as they walked. The sawing, hammering and chiselling had started the day after the Convocation, and its sponsor, Sir Eustace Dunning, had promised the craftsmen a handsome bonus if they finished before the Feast of Corpus Christi. Needless to say, the artisans were eager to oblige.
Michael scowled. ‘I still cannot believe that ridiculous grace was passed. And by only three votes, too! It will mean nothing but trouble.’
‘No – it will mean that all our scholars will have access to texts they might otherwise never see,’ countered Bartholomew. He had voted for the proposal, much to Michael’s disgust, and while he knew he would never persuade the monk to his point of view – or vice versa – they still argued about it every time they passed Newe Inn in each other’s company.
‘But Newe Inn is wholly unsuitable for the purpose.’ Michael stopped to glare at it. ‘It is the wrong size, the wrong shape, and most of its windows face north. It will be too dark to read most of the time, and too cold in winter. Moreover, Batayl Hostel and the Carmelites think it should be theirs.’
‘It is Sir Eustace Dunning’s property. He can give it to whoever he likes.’
‘No good will come of it,’ predicted Michael sourly. ‘And I still cannot believe that you supported its foundation. I thought I had made it clear that I was against it, and that I expected all the Regents from my own College to vote accordingly.’
‘A lot of good will come of it, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, who had resented being ordered to act against his beliefs. ‘I am tired of running all over the University every time I want to consult a text – and of hoping that its owner will deign to let me see it. A Common Library will mean they are all stored in one place, and will thus be available to everyone.’
‘That is idealistic claptrap! First, this collection will be open to every member of our studium generale, which means the demand on its resources will be enormous. You may never see the books you want because others will get to them first.’
‘But at least those in the poorer foundations will have a chance to–’
‘And second, there is the issue of benefactions. Our College rarely buys books, because they are too expensive – most have been bequeathed to us. But a central repository will be more attractive to donors, and they will favour it in their wills. What will become of Michaelhouse?’
‘We will use the Common Library.’
‘You are missing the point!’ cried Michael, exasperated. ‘I do not refer to the academic value of books, but to their actual value. We sold our spare copy of Holcot’s Postillae earlier this year, and it raised enough money to keep us in bread for a month. Ergo, they are a vital asset, and your Common Library will deprive us of it. And we are not rich as it is.’
‘Books are not a commodity, Brother, to be bought and sold like–’
‘Of course they are a commodity! Even Deynman our Librarian, who is as fanatical about his charges as a mother hen with chicks, agreed that it was right to let the Holcot go.’