Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

‘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.’

Michael regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Yes, they are, which means you should not have been here, either, yet you were the one to raise the alarm. What were you doing?’

Browne looked decidedly furtive. ‘I occasionally slip over the wall to ensure all is well. It is unwise to leave a place unattended too long, and I take my neighbourly responsibilities seriously.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael coolly. ‘However, it does not explain why you were here , at this pond. It is far beyond benefiting from philanthropic inspections.’

Browne was defiant. ‘Times are hard, especially for a poor foundation like ours, and there are fish in this pool. You, from rich old Michaelhouse, will not know what it is like to be hungry.’

Michael, Bartholomew and Cynric said nothing, but the truth was that their College was not wealthy at all, and they understood all too well what it was like to exist on meagre rations. They possessed several fine buildings, along with land that kept them supplied with vegetables, but their roofs leaked, they were crippled with debt, and a fire had not burned in the hearth for weeks. Not even a windfall resulting from a recent journey to York had helped them for long.

‘So you are a poacher,’ surmised Michael, fixing Browne with an icy glare. ‘How often do you raid University property, exactly?’

‘Bagging the occasional carp hardly makes me a poacher,’ objected Browne indignantly, although Bartholomew was sure the law would not agree.

‘Was the corpse here yesterday?’ snapped Michael impatiently.

‘If so, I would have reported it then,’ Browne shot back, then added defensively, ‘Not that I visit every day, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘We need to tug him out. I am not sure how, though – he is some distance from the bank.’

Bartholomew fashioned a grappling hook by tying one of his surgical implements on to a piece of twine. Then he flung it towards the body, aiming to snag it and draw it across to him. Unfortunately, it was caught on something below the surface, and the makeshift device was not strong enough to let him pull it free.

‘You had better wade in after him,’ said Michael. ‘Or we shall be here all day.’

‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘My remit is to tell you how he died, not go paddling about in dirty ponds while you stand by and make unhelpful suggestions.’

‘ I am not going,’ said Cynric firmly, when the monk turned to him. He crossed himself with one hand, while the other gripped a couple of the talismans that hung around his neck. ‘This pool is infested with an evil kind of faerie.’

‘Surely, you have a charm to protect you?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘You seem to be wearing at least four, not to mention pilgrim tokens and a holy relic. No one in Cambridge is better protected from wicked spirits than you.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Cynric comfortably. ‘But I am still not going in that pond.’

‘Nor am I, lest you think to ask,’ said Browne. ‘It is not my responsibility, either.’

‘And I cannot swim,’ added Michael. He grinned rather triumphantly at Bartholomew. ‘So either you must do it, or we shall have to wait until a beadle deigns to arrive.’

As it was nearing the date when his students would take their final disputations, and he was keen to return to College to make sure they were hard at work, Bartholomew sat down and began to untie his boots. Michael was right: it might be some time before a beadle – one of the army of men he hired to keep unruly scholars under control – put in an appearance, because they were still busy ensuring that no trouble was bubbling after the Convocation.

‘It will not take a moment,’ said Michael consolingly. ‘Then you can return to terrorising your pupils, and I can continue to soothe ragged tempers over this library. You know what happened the last time our Colleges and hostels took against each other.’

Bartholomew was unlikely to forget the events of the previous February, when a ruthless killer had fanned the flames of dissent between the University’s warring factions. He stood and put one foot in the water, but it was bone-chillingly cold – far more so than he had expected – and he withdrew it hastily.

‘Just jump,’ advised Michael. ‘It will be unpleasant for an instant, but then all you have to do is wade a few steps, grab the corpse and haul it back to us.’

‘There is a platform just under the surface,’ supplied Browne, rather more helpfully. ‘Built to allow servants to walk out and catch the fish with nets. You can see it if you look carefully. Use that.’

Bartholomew saw there was indeed a structure beneath the water. It was made from old planks, and was black with age and slime. He supposed it would normally be exposed, but recent rains meant the water level was higher than usual. He stepped on to it, wincing at the frigid temperature a second time, and was relieved to find it only reached mid-calf. Gingerly, he moved along it, wondering just how old the planks were, and whether they were stable. The thought had no sooner formed in his mind when he felt them move. He froze in alarm.

‘Stop,’ said Cynric urgently. ‘Come back, and I will–’

The rest of his sentence was lost under a tearing groan. Bartholomew flailed his arms in a desperate effort to keep his balance, but the wood crumbled beneath his feet, and into the pond he went. It was so cold after the warmth of the day that he gasped involuntarily, inhaling water that made him choke. He struck out for the bank, but a piece of planking landed on him and forced him beneath the surface. There, looming in the darkness, was a dead face. Startled, he gulped a second time, swallowing yet more water.

‘You did not bring the body,’ said Browne, grinning his amusement as the physician scrambled up the bank, dripping and disgusted. ‘You will have to go back for it.’

‘I saw it under the water.’ Bartholomew coughed, and Cynric pounded him on the back. ‘Your beadles will have to trawl for it, Brother. I had no idea this pond was so deep.’

‘It is deep,’ agreed Browne. ‘The fish would have died years ago, were it not. But the corpse is not under the water, Bartholomew. It has not moved.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him, and saw that Browne was right. ‘But I saw a face,’ he said, wondering whether he had imagined it; the pond was murky after all. ‘It floated past me …’

‘There are two corpses,’ cried Cynric, the shrillness of his voice making everyone jump. ‘I told you this place was evil!’

Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and saw the unmistakable shape of a second body, bobbing a short distance from the first.

‘Actually, there are three,’ breathed Michael, gesturing in entirely another direction. ‘Lord save us! It is a veritable graveyard!’

It was late afternoon by the time the beadles had completed an initial dredge of the pond. The first body had been snagged on the underwater structure, and it had taken three of them to haul it free; the other corpses had been recovered by dropping hooks into the water. The pond released a foul odour as it was disturbed, and several beadles claimed to feel faint, so Michael sent Cynric to fetch Bartholomew, who had gone home. The physician arrived to find the men sullen and fearful, but was unsympathetic when he learned why.

‘The smell is not the Devil’s breath,’ he said firmly, glaring at his book-bearer as he did so – he knew exactly who had put that thought into their minds. ‘It is just stagnant water.’