‘I visited a paper mill in France once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It stank, and polluted the local drinking water.’
‘Perhaps so, but we cannot allow that to interfere with progress,’ said Weasenham. He lowered his voice, eyes alight with malice. ‘Did you know that the London brothers are members of Batayl Hostel? I cannot imagine what possessed them to choose that disreputable foundation and–’
‘They enrolled because they are interested in alchemy and Batayl owns two books on the subject,’ interrupted Bonabes irritably. The other scribes also looked annoyed by the stationer’s disparaging remarks. ‘There is nothing unsavoury about the association.’
‘If you say so,’ sniffed Weasenham, making it clear that he would think what he liked. He turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Now what did you want to tell me?’
‘I am afraid we bring bad news.’ Michael took a deep breath to steel himself. ‘Adam is dead. The Sheriff’s men found him by the river this morning.’
There was a crash as Bonabes knocked over an inkwell, his face white with horror. Weasenham gripped a table for support, and the other scriveners clamoured their disbelief.
‘No!’ whispered Bonabes. ‘You are mistaken. Adam cannot be dead!’
The noise brought Weasenham’s wife running. He had recently remarried, and it was no surprise that he had opted for a lady who matched his wealth and social standing. Ruth Dunning, the elder of Sir Eustace’s two daughters, was a pretty woman with dark hair and arresting eyes.
‘What is the matter?’ she cried, bending down to mop up the mess Bonabes had made. ‘Help me, quickly, or this will stain.’
‘Never mind the floor,’ said Weasenham shakily. ‘Brother Michael has news.’
Michael told what little he knew, then tried to answer the distraught questions that followed. Bonabes was the most distressed, because he and Adam had started to work for Weasenham at the same time, and the older man had harboured a fatherly affection for the eager youngster. Ruth put a compassionate hand on his arm while he wept.
‘Bonabes is French,’ whispered Weasenham, to explain the Exemplarius’s unmanly display. ‘But I still think I must be dreaming. Adam! How can this be true?’
‘The Sheriff will visit you soon,’ said Michael. ‘When he comes, please tell him everything you can about Adam’s last movements. It may help him catch the killer.’
‘Adam said he would come in early today, to help finish the Aristotle,’ sobbed Bonabes. ‘I was surprised when he failed to appear, and I wish to God I had gone to look for him. I might have been able to save …’ He could not finish.
‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘His body was cold, and I suspect he died yesterday, not this morning.’
‘The rest of us stayed here all last night, working,’ said Ruth. ‘The demand for exemplars is very high at the moment, you see. But Adam is still recovering from his summer ague, so we sent him home when it grew dark, although he objected to being singled out for favoured treatment.’
‘Oh, no!’ breathed Bonabes, ashen-faced. ‘Please do not say that is why he died – because we sent him out at dusk, thinking to be kind.’
It was highly likely, but neither Michael nor Bartholomew wanted to add to their anguish by saying so. Michael shook his head reassuringly, while Bartholomew, never good at prevaricating, stared at his feet. When the scribes were calmer, the monk resumed his questioning.
‘None of you left?’ he asked, looking at each in turn. ‘Not even for a moment?’
‘No,’ replied Weasenham. ‘We were too busy. So, if your question aims to determine whether any of us killed him, you are barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Who did this terrible thing?’ demanded Bonabes, grief giving way to anger. ‘Adam did not have an enemy in the world – he was a polite, quiet lad. And he was like a son to me …’
‘Dick Tulyet believes smugglers might be to blame,’ replied Michael.
‘Smugglers,’ spat Weasenham. ‘I hate them! They flood the town with untaxed supplies that make mine seem expensive. And now Adam … How could they? He was just a child!’
Bartholomew and Michael left them to their mourning, and stepped into the High Street. The day was getting warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. Neither was cheered by the sight, though, after their grim work. Wordlessly, they started to walk to Michaelhouse, but stopped when they saw Bartholomew’s book-bearer hurrying towards them.
‘Here comes trouble,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘I can see in his face that something awful has happened.’
Cynric had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, and the physician had lost count of the times they had saved each other’s lives. The Welshman was an experienced warrior, and also the most superstitious man in Cambridge.
‘There has been a death,’ reported Cynric tersely. ‘In Newe Inn’s garden.’
‘Newe Inn?’ asked Michael. ‘But we passed it not long ago. Are you sure?’
‘Of course,’ replied Cynric. ‘The message comes from Principal Coslaye. He says the fellow is quite dead, so there is no need to hurry, but he would appreciate you arriving before this evening, because he and his scholars want to see a mystery play in the Market Square.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, eyebrows raised. ‘Then we had better oblige.’
Besides teaching medicine and trying to serve a list of patients that was far too long for one man, Bartholomew was also the University’s Corpse Examiner, which meant he was obliged to provide an official cause of death for any scholar who died, or for any person breathing his last on University property. Newe Inn fell firmly under his jurisdiction, whether the dead man transpired to be scholar or townsman, so he turned and followed Michael back to Cholles Lane.
When they arrived, he took a moment to view Newe Inn from the outside, to assess whether the monk was right to say it was unsuitable for a library. He supposed its round-headed windows were on the narrow side, while he could attest from personal experience that stone buildings were chilly in winter – he lived in one himself, and could not recall ever being as cold as he had been in February and March. Yet these seemed minor issues compared to the advantages the place would confer when it was finished.
He was about to enter, when voices farther up the lane made him glance around – Prior Etone was leading his friars home after a lengthy post-Convocation gripe with the Dominicans. The Carmelites were a powerful force in Cambridge, with about fifty brothers and an army of laymen and servants. Most were regarding Bartholomew rather coolly.
‘You were wrong to vote for that library, Matthew,’ called Etone. ‘It is not a good idea to have one of those in our studium generale.’
‘Especially as it is to be housed in Newe Inn,’ added the skeletal Riborowe. ‘That building was promised to us, and you had no right to support a scheme that saw us dispossessed.’
‘I told him all that before the Convocation,’ Michael called back before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But he did not listen – thinking about urine and leeches, probably.’
At that moment, a bell chimed inside the convent to tell the friars that a light meal was available in the refectory, and most of them trooped off to enjoy it, but Prior Etone crossed the lane to continue berating Bartholomew. He was accompanied by Riborowe and a tiny, sparrow-like man named Jorz, with a nose like a stubby beak.
‘Wait, Matt,’ ordered Michael, as Bartholomew edged towards Newe Inn’s door, unwilling to be rebuked yet again for doing what he had felt was right. ‘The Carmelites are still seriously piqued over the Common Library, and a few moments smoothing ruffled feathers will not go amiss.’