Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

‘I will wait a few moments, then knock,’ said Michael. ‘You go around the back, to make sure he does not escape. Here is a dagger.’

Bartholomew had not known Michael was armed, and was unsettled that the monk should think such draconian measures necessary. Without a word, he took the weapon, and eased down a smelly alley until he reached a gate. It was unlocked, so he opened it and stepped into Holm’s yard.

He was startled to see the surgeon slumped over a garden table. There was no sign of Walkelate. He approached cautiously, and saw a lump on the back of Holm’s head; ropes secured his hands and feet. He felt for a life-beat, and at his touch, Holm’s eyelids flickered open. The surgeon moaned and cursed his way back to wakefulness, while Bartholomew struggled to unravel the knots.

‘Who did this to you?’ asked Bartholomew urgently. ‘Quickly, man! Speak!’

‘Walkelate,’ groaned Holm. ‘It happened last night, and I have been stuck out here ever since. Thank God you came to save me.’

‘Why did he hit you?’ demanded Bartholomew, agitation and concern making him rougher with the ropes and his questions than he might otherwise have been.

‘You are unsympathetic, because of Isnard,’ said Holm sullenly. ‘He claims I tried to poison him, because it transpires that he is innocent of wrongdoing and I owe you five marks.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Do you know–’

‘But I only used a mild dose of henbane,’ Holm went on. ‘I would not have given him any, but he was gloating about me having to pay you, and I could not help myself.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Isnard was right? You did try to dispatch him?’

‘Not dispatch,’ corrected Holm, rubbing his abused wrists. ‘Teach him a lesson. And I shall give you your five marks as soon as I am married.’

‘You will pay me from Julitta’s dowry? I hardly think that is right.’

‘No?’ pounced Holm. ‘I am glad you think so. I shall keep it for myself, then.’

It was no time to discuss money. ‘Did you know that your lover is a murderer? He has just confessed to killing several scholars in order to frighten them out of libraries.’

Holm squinted up at him, and Bartholomew felt uncharitably disappointed when he saw the astonishment in his eyes. He could tell it was genuine. The surgeon blew out his cheeks as he assimilated the information.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Who would have thought it? I know he was always saying that times are hard, but to kill to make them better … Oh, well. I was beginning to tire of him, anyway, and I can do a lot better for myself, even if his cousin does know the King.’

Bartholomew did not care about the surgeon’s ambitions. ‘Where is Walkelate now?’

‘I have no idea. And I cannot imagine why he hit me, either. All I did was offer to spruce up his library – I decided it would do my reputation no harm to be associated with the finished product, you see. Besides, it was an excuse to be away from the annoying Julitta.’

With difficulty, Bartholomew ignored the last remark. ‘He hit you for wanting to help him?’

At that moment, Michael appeared. ‘The door was unlocked, so I–’ He gaped in confusion when he saw Holm holding his head and the ropes on the ground. ‘What happened?’

‘I suppose I was rather insistent,’ admitted Holm, continuing to address Bartholomew. ‘However, he did not have to resort to violence. I would have desisted eventually.’

‘He could not take the risk that you would foist yourself on him anyway.’ Bartholomew spoke more to himself than the surgeon. ‘I suspect he had a lot to do last night. Tell us what you recall.’

‘Me begging to accompany him, and him saying that he was too busy. I told him I did not require entertaining, and I suppose we quarrelled. The next thing I knew was him coming at me with the hilt of a dagger. I am lucky he did not skewer me.’

‘You hired singers to entertain the craftsmen at Newe Inn the night Northwood and the others died,’ began Michael. ‘Why did you choose that particular night to be generous?’

‘Because Walkelate said it would be a kindness, and I was keen to stay on his good side. He is an important member of King’s Hall, as I have said before.’

Again, Bartholomew knew Holm was telling the truth; the open selfishness had the ring of honesty about it. ‘Clearly, Walkelate wanted to drown out any sounds his accomplices might have made doing God knows what in the garden,’ he said to Michael.

‘Yes,’ agreed the monk. ‘And now we had better look for him in Gyseburne’s home, where we should have gone in the first place.’

‘He will not be there,’ said Holm. He shrugged rather sheepishly. ‘Ayera told me a tale that Gyseburne’s mother is a witch, and I repeated it to Walkelate, thinking he would find it amusing, but he was appalled, and has avoided the fellow ever since. But why are you so eager to find him?’

‘Because it transpires that he has an unsavoury interest in artillery,’ explained Michael tersely. ‘And because we fear that he may be in league with men who want to use some on our town.’

Holm considered the accusation, then nodded slowly. ‘He might. He is interested in armaments, and he has been meeting villainous men for weeks. French-speaking men. I overheard him arranging to sell them something a fortnight or so ago. He told me that they were visiting scholars from Paris, but I did not believe him. They were warriors without a doubt.’

‘We have not had visiting scholars from Paris for months,’ said Michael immediately, who as Senior Proctor was in a position to know.

‘Are you saying that the raiders are French?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered. But then he recalled that the ones he had encountered had spoken that language.

‘Well they are rather more than common brigands,’ said Holm curtly. ‘Or they would not be so damned persistent.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was hearing. ‘We think Walkelate has invented a wildfire-spitting ribauldequin, and we are at war with France. Selling Frenchmen weapons – or even plans and formulae – amounts to treason!’

‘Only if he is caught,’ said Holm. ‘And he told me himself that he is cleverer than you.’

‘I thought he was your friend,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could point out that siding with the French at Poitiers had hardly been an act of patriotism. suspicious of the surgeon’s disloyal revelations. ‘How can you betray his confidences so readily?’

‘He forfeited my friendship when he hit me on the head,’ said Holm with a pout. ‘Besides, I have my reputation to consider. I do not want to be associated with treason.’

‘Think very carefully,’ instructed Michael, before Bartholomew could point out that siding with the French at Poitiers had hardly been an act of patriotism. ‘Can you suggest anywhere he might be? He is not at King’s Hall or his library.’

Holm frowned, still rubbing his wrists, while Bartholomew struggled with the urge to grab him by the throat in an effort to speed up his ponderings.

‘Try the Carmelites’ scriptorium,’ he said eventually. ‘He mentioned buying some labels there.’

‘Go to the castle and tell the Sheriff everything we have just reasoned,’ ordered Michael, turning to leave. ‘Even the parts you do not understand. It is a matter of life and death, so do it immediately – as quickly as you can run.’

‘He will not oblige,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the surgeon with loathing. ‘Just as he did not bother to raise the alarm when Rougham and I were accosted. He ran straight home and shut himself safely inside. If he had been braver, we might have been rescued before Rougham revealed the secret of wildfire to what we now suspect were French spies!’