‘Oh, good,’ said Michael without enthusiasm. ‘It is a–’
‘But you have not been here before,’ interrupted Walkelate, looking at Bartholomew and beaming widely at the prospect of a new admirer. ‘Allow me to show you around.’
‘Not now,’ said Michael quickly. ‘We were told there is a corpse to inspect.’
‘A corpse?’ echoed Walkelate, startled. ‘There is no cadaver here, I assure you!’ He turned eagerly back to Bartholomew. ‘Like all decent libraries, ours will be in two sections. The room in which we are standing holds the libri distribuendi – duplicates, cheaper volumes and exemplars. These may be lent to scholars, to take home.’
‘And the libri concatenati?’ asked Bartholomew.
Walkelate led the way to the adjoining chamber. It was larger than the first, and finer, with specially designed carrels and lecterns for reading. ‘As you know, the libri concatenati are expensive or popular books. They will be chained to the walls or to lecterns, and will not be removed from the building.’
‘Our library will be magnificent,’ said Bartholomew warmly, his reservations about the building’s suitability quite vanished. He pointed to a huge rough chest in the middle of the room, which stood in a sea of wood shavings. ‘Although I assume that will not be staying?’
‘That is a cista exemplarium – a box for storing spare exemplars – and will eventually live in the basement. However, for now, it provides a convenient work table.’
To prove his point, he sat next to it. On the cista was a hefty bust of Aristotle, meticulously carved in oak, which he picked up and began to buff lovingly.
‘This will be mounted atop the first bookcase our scholars will see upon entering,’ he explained. ‘To welcome them to this sacred hall of learning.’
‘I am surprised you accepted Dunning’s invitation to design this place,’ remarked Michael. ‘Your College is violently opposed to the scheme, and King’s Hall has always been rather keen on unity.’
‘I know,’ said Walkelate with a sigh. ‘They remind me of my dissension at every meal.’
‘Then why did you do it?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. His own colleagues were still peeved with him for the way he had voted, and he could not imagine what it would be like for Walkelate, who had not only supported the venture, but was its architect, too.
‘Because I firmly believe that they will appreciate its benefits in time,’ replied Walkelate. ‘And that they will come to love it. Besides, this project represented a challenge, and I like my skills to be tested.’
‘You have worked very hard,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘However, a grand opening during Corpus Christi will be a red rag to a bull. A discreet, quiet ceremony the week after would be far more suitable. I do not suppose you might consider …’
‘I cannot delay the work to suit you, Brother,’ said Walkelate reproachfully. ‘Dunning has offered the craftsmen a substantial bonus if they finish on time, and it would be cruel to deprive them of such a prize after all their labours.’
He smiled as two men walked into the room, laden down with wood and buckets of nails. The first man, who was enormous, carried the bulk of the supplies. He looked like a wrestler, and his thick yellow hair was tied in a tail at the back of his head. The second was smaller, with sad eyes and a wart on the side of his nose. Both looked exhausted, and when they deposited their materials on the cista, they heaved weary sighs.
‘This is Kente,’ said Walkelate, indicating the smaller of the pair. ‘He is responsible for all the carving, while Frevill here built the shelves.’
‘Another week,’ said Kente, bending slowly to pick up a hammer. ‘Then we shall be finished, and I will sleep for a month. I cannot recall ever working so hard!’
‘Nor I,’ growled Frevill. ‘But the bonus will be worth the pre-dawn starts and the late finishes. My father says it will eliminate all the debt our family has incurred this winter.’
Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Dunning would be able to pay what he had promised, because it was clear that the artisans had given everything they had to meet his deadline.
He was about to compliment Kente and Frevill on their achievement when there was another clatter of footsteps on the stairs. A man stood in the doorway, hands on hips, as he regarded Michael with considerable anger.
‘What are you doing up here?’ he demanded in a powerful West Country burr. He was short, although he carried himself as though he were taller, and had straight, grey-brown hair. His name was Robert Browne, and he was a teacher at Batayl Hostel. Bartholomew braced himself for some unpleasantness – Browne was not one of the University’s more congenial members.
Michael regarded Browne in surprise. ‘Why should I not be here?’
‘Because your duties lie in Newe Inn’s garden,’ snarled Browne. ‘Not in its damned library.’
‘The corpse,’ surmised Michael. ‘So there is one after all. However, your Principal said there was no immediate hurry, and–’
‘Coslaye is not the one obliged to loiter next to it until the Senior Proctor deigns to appear,’ snapped Browne angrily. ‘And he may not consider murder urgent, but I do.’
‘Murder?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘How do you–’
‘If you can bear to bring an end to your sightseeing,’ replied Browne waspishly, ‘you may come and see for yourself.’
It had been several years since anyone had tended Newe Inn’s grounds and they screamed of neglect and decay. Some weeds were taller than Bartholomew, who was not a short man, while nettles choked what had once been vegetable beds, and the grass was thigh-high. The tavern must have been leased to a long succession of negligent landlords, and he wondered whether Cynric was right to say that Dunning was glad to be rid of the responsibility it would pose.
‘Will anything be done to tame this wilderness before the library opens?’ he asked, trying to fight his way free of a bramble with thorns like talons. It retaliated by ripping his shirt. ‘It is downright dangerous!’
‘It is,’ agreed Cynric, kicking viciously at a huge thistle.
‘Dunning declined to renovate the house and clear the garden,’ explained Michael, following Browne along a barely discernible path, which ran by the side of the teetering wall that divided Newe Inn from neighbouring Batayl. ‘So Tynkell decided to leave the grounds until next year. Doubtless he will use them to instigate some other foolish plan to see himself immortalised.’
Eventually, they arrived at a large pond where past owners had bred carp and trout. It reeked, although the stench was partly masked by a fragrantly scented patch of lily of the valley to one side, a bright jewel of beauty in a place that was otherwise unsightly. Floating in the middle of the pond, face-down and with an arrow protruding from its back, was the body.
‘Now can you see why I had the audacity to suggest murder?’ asked Browne archly. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. He had never liked the physician, preferring staid traditionalists to those who favoured new ideas. ‘You do not need a Corpse Examiner to tell you that he did not do that to himself.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Michael.
‘His face is in the water and his clothes are black with mud,’ replied Browne tartly. ‘So how am I supposed to know that? However, I can tell you that he is not supposed to be here.’
‘Obviously,’ muttered Cynric. ‘Cadavers bobbing about in fish ponds is hardly right.’
Browne’s lips compressed into a thin line. ‘I meant that no one is supposed to frequent these grounds. They are University property and therefore private.’