Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

‘I agree,’ bawled Coslaye. ‘Dunning’s offer should have been rejected.’

‘But you run a hostel, Coslaye,’ Sawtre pointed out reproachfully. ‘You should support a scheme that will give your scholars the same access to books as College men.’

‘My lads would rather be bookless than spend another winter in cramped misery,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘We need that building.’

‘It was promised to us,’ said Prior Etone of the Carmelites sharply. ‘No matter what Dunning claims now. And its loss is a bitter blow, because we had plans for it.’

‘This nasty library has caused all manner of strife among us,’ interjected Doctor Rougham of Gonville Hall sadly. He was a physician, unattractive of countenance and character. ‘It is not just Colleges and hostels fighting each other – it is worse. There are divisions within foundations, too, and they are tearing us apart. I am ashamed to admit that even Gonville has a traitor.’

‘One who has dared not show his face here today,’ added another Gonville scholar sourly. ‘Namely Roger Vale, our second Master of Medicine.’

‘Vale is not a traitor,’ said Sawtre firmly. ‘He just likes the idea of a Common Library. As do I.’

‘It is the Devil’s work,’ declared Thomas Riborowe, who ran the Carmelites’ scriptorium. He was a skeletally thin specimen with a cadaverous pallor. ‘We should all unite against Satan’s evil designs, and vote to repeal the grace with immediate effect.’

‘You cannot really believe that!’ cried Sawtre over the resulting hubbub. ‘The only reason you are able to read the tomes you love so dearly is because your priory owns them. Surely, others deserve that right, too?’

‘And they can have it – if they take holy orders and become friars,’ screeched Riborowe.

‘Enough!’ roared Michael, cutting through the furious squabble that followed. ‘We did not come here to bicker about a grace that has already been passed. We came to discuss my new Junior Proctor. Are there any volunteers?’

Suddenly, the church went quiet, and Bartholomew noted with amusement that some Regents were holding their breath, afraid to move lest they attracted unwanted attention. Others stared fixedly at the floor or the ceiling, unwilling to risk catching Michael’s eye. When Tynkell declared an end to the gathering a short while later, there was a concerted dash towards the door, still in total silence. Outside, however, the debate about the library continued in venomous brays.

‘I was not expecting a plethora of offers,’ said Michael ruefully, watching the last of the Regents jostling through the door. ‘But it is disappointing when not one colleague is prepared to help me. And if there had been a willing candidate, his first duty would have been to visit Weasenham and break the news about Adam. I confess, it is not a task I relish.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, glad it was not his responsibility.

A crafty look came into Michael’s eye. ‘It will be a terrible shock, and Weasenham’s scribes may need the services of a physician. You must come with me.’

The stationer’s premises occupied a strategic spot on the High Street, and was where scholars and scribes went to purchase the supplies they needed for their work – pens, ink, glue, parchment and vellum, books and, of course, exemplars. It stood near All Saints-in-the-Jewry, conveniently close to King’s Hall, where the University’s wealthiest academics lived, and was a grand affair with a tiled roof and several spacious rooms. Weasenham and his household lived on the upper floor, while the lower one was dedicated to business.

Bartholomew had always liked the place, with its sharp, metallic aroma of ink and the rich scent of new parchment, although he was less keen on its owner. Weasenham, a thin, rodent-faced man with long, oily hair, was an unrepentant gossip, and could always be trusted to turn any innocent incident into scurrilous rumour.

The shop was busy, despite the early hour, which explained why he was one of the richest men in the town. Two Fellows from Bene’t College were discussing whether to purchase a second copy of Gratian’s Decretum , watched enviously by a gaggle of scholars from Batayl Hostel who could not afford their first. A group of friars was admiring a new shipment of psalters, and students clamoured at Weasenham’s assistants for the exemplars they needed for the next stage of their studies.

The stationer himself was talking to William Walkelate, the King’s Hall architect.

‘We are doing very well,’ Walkelate was saying happily. ‘There is no reason why we should not be ready by next Thursday. Dunning will be delighted, because he has set his heart on a grand opening at Corpus Christi. I do not blame him – it is one of our greatest religious festivals, and will be an auspicious start for his foundation.’

Weasenham smiled, eyes bright with greed. ‘I shall be busier than ever once our scholars sample the many tracts stored there, and commissions for exemplars will be so numerous that I do not know how we shall cope. Thank God for Adam and his lightning pen!’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

‘We need to talk to you, Weasenham,’ said Michael, once Walkelate had collected his supplies and left the shop, beaming affably at everyone he passed. The poorer scholars smiled back, appreciative of his labours. The wealthier ones glared, although Walkelate did not seem to notice; like many academics, he was not very sensitive to atmospheres.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ whispered Weasenham, glancing around furtively in the way he always did when he was about to impart something that he should probably have kept to himself. ‘The Common Library is unlikely to open on time. Walkelate just told me.’

Bartholomew stared at him in confusion. ‘But he just said it would. I heard him.’

‘He did, but he has his doubts – I could see them in his face.’ Weasenham winked conspiratorially. ‘And have you heard about Dunning’s youngest daughter? She is my wife’s sister as you know. Well, it transpires that she is to marry Holm, the town’s new surgeon.’

‘Perhaps we could go somewhere private,’ suggested Michael, while Bartholomew wondered how the stationer contrived to make even the most innocuous of events sound indecently salacious. ‘We have news.’

‘Certainly,’ said Weasenham, delighted. ‘I like news. Come. We shall talk in the back room.’

The ‘back room’ was a spacious chamber with large windows. There were ten desks for writing, although only seven were occupied. Two scriveners were copying theological tracts, while the remainder were preparing an exemplar comprising a selection of work by Aristotle.

‘We are short-handed this morning,’ said Weasenham, gesturing to the empty tables. ‘The London brothers are late, and so is Adam. It is unlike Adam to be tardy, because he is very keen.’

‘And the London brothers are not?’ asked Michael, more to postpone his unpleasant duty than because he really wanted to know.

Weasenham leaned forward with a spiteful leer. ‘They like to malinger.’

‘That is unfair,’ objected one of the scribes. He was a handsome man, perhaps thirty years old, with jet black hair that fell in curls around his face. ‘The brothers do sometimes arrive late, but they always work long after the rest of us have gone home.’

‘This is Bonabes, my Exemplarius,’ said Weasenham to Bartholomew and Michael. As exemplars were studied very closely by the students who hired them, it was vital that they were error-free, and to ensure a consistently high standard, the work was checked by a senior scribe; Weasenham always referred to his as the Exemplarius. ‘He is right to defend the people under his care. However–’ Here he gave Bonabes a sharp glare ‘–he should not feel compelled to do it over the just criticism of his employer.’