Susanna GREGORY - Murder by the Book

‘Langelee is lying,’ said Dunning coldly. ‘And I want to hear no more of his tales. Kill them.’

There was nothing Bartholomew, Michael or Langelee could do as they were forced to kneel in a line. One mercenary stood behind them, executioner style, and drew his sword. His cool proficiency indicated it was a task he had performed before.

‘Wait!’ shouted Michael. ‘You have not killed anyone, Walkelate. It is not too late to turn back.’

‘But I do not want to turn back,’ said Walkelate, grabbing a handful of kindling from the hearth. ‘I have learned a lot from my experiments, and I can make a significant contribution to the alchemical sciences now. And what is more important than the advancement of knowledge?’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Dunning, watching the architect in bemusement.

‘He has killed, Michael,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘He poisoned his helpmeets. You just heard him admit that he hid their bodies in the pond.’

‘It was an accident,’ objected Walkelate, casting an uneasy glance at Bonabes, whose eyes had narrowed. ‘How was I to know that red lead is toxic when heated?’

‘Of course you did,’ said Bartholomew scornfully. ‘It is basic alchemy. You knew exactly what would happen, and you even persuaded Holm to hire singers to drown the sounds of their final agonies. You condemned them to horrible deaths with calculated and ruthless efficiency. And Northwood and the London brothers were men Bonabes was fond of.’

But his effort to cause friction failed: Bonabes was too determined to have his weapons to allow himself to be distracted by the mere murder of friends.

‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped to the executioner. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Jorz was no accident, though,’ said Bartholomew, twisting to one side, and thus spoiling the man’s aim. Impatiently, he was tugged upright again.

‘He grew suspicious of me,’ explained Walkelate. ‘So I had no choice. But I did it in such a way that everyone assumed he had a seizure. No one will ever know what I did.’

‘You will never clean our blood away in time for your grand opening,’ said Michael quickly, watching the executioner grab Bartholomew’s hair. ‘It will stain your beautiful floorboards.’

‘He has a point,’ said Dunning worriedly. ‘Nothing can be allowed to spoil my ceremony.’

‘I will borrow some rugs from King’s Hall,’ replied Walkelate, his attention on the kindling.

‘Setting the castle alight will ruin the library’s grand opening,’ shouted Michael, desperation in his voice as the mercenary prepared to deliver the fatal blow. ‘All eyes will be on that, and no one will care about your generous donation.’

But Dunning was not listening: he was looking at Walkelate. ‘What are you doing?’

‘He plans to set a fire,’ yelled Michael, toppling sideways and knocking Bartholomew out of the executioner’s grasp with his bulk. ‘Your foundation will be reduced to ashes.’

‘What?’ demanded Dunning. ‘There will be no fires here!’

‘Just a small one,’ said Walkelate calmly. ‘To eliminate evidence of our activities. We cannot have Dame Pelagia poking around and discovering clues we have overlooked. Bartholomew has drawn conclusions from stray metal filings, and it might prove fatal if she does the same.’

‘No!’ cried Dunning. ‘I forbid it!’

But Walkelate had already touched a flame to his sticks, and there was a low roar as they ignited. The resulting blaze was evidently fiercer than he had anticipated, as he flinched away in alarm. Dunning’s jaw dropped in horror.

‘It is the wood oil,’ gasped Bartholomew, fighting back as the executioner tried to manoeuvre him into position again. ‘Kente used buckets of the stuff, and it is highly combustible. Your library will burn to the ground.’

‘No!’ howled Dunning, hauling off his cloak and beginning to beat at the flames. It served to make them burn more ferociously. ‘Bonabes! Help me!’

The heat was so intense that the executioner raised his hand to protect his face. His momentary distraction allowed Bartholomew to lurch forward and punch the pot from Bonabes’s hand. It fell into the fire. With a screech of fury, Bonabes tried to grab it back, but the flames were too powerful.

‘Oh, God!’ shrieked Walkelate, when he saw what had happened. ‘Run!’

‘No one is going anywhere!’ Dunning blocked the door. ‘You will stay here and put out this blaze. The library is my path to immortality, and I am not prepared to lose it.’

But the executioner had had enough, and so had his cronies. They began to advance on the door, swords at the ready, and it was clear that they were not going to let Dunning stop them. Immediately, Langelee surged to his feet and snatched up the blade Ayera had dropped. At the same time, thick, black smoke began to pour from the wildfire pot, and everyone near it started to cough.

‘Damn you!’ cried Bonabes, racing towards Bartholomew with murder in his eyes. ‘You do not know what you have done!’

Langelee leapt forward to deflect the brutal thrust, and the two blades slid down each other with a tearing scream that drew sparks.

‘On the contrary,’ said Dame Pelagia. She was standing behind Dunning, who whipped around in alarm. ‘He knows exactly what he has done.’

Bartholomew slumped in relief as Tulyet and his soldiers poured into the room. There were several brief skirmishes, but the mercenaries knew when they were outmatched, and soon threw down their weapons, claiming they were only hired hands and knew nothing of importance. Then he saw that the pot containing the wildfire was glowing, and his blood ran cold.

‘It is going to explode!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Get away from it! Now!’

But his warning came too late. There was a dull thump, and suddenly burning wildfire was everywhere. It landed mostly on the mercenaries, who had happened to be closest. Then all was confusion, noise and choking smoke. Bartholomew saw Michael’s habit smouldering, and hurried to slash off the smoking material with a knife. He flung it to the far side of the room, where it burst into flames. Michael looked from his ravaged habit to the little inferno in horror.

Bartholomew ran to Ayera, and tried to drag his body to the door, loath to leave him to be incinerated, but the geometrician was heavy and the room was filling with dark, acrid fumes.

‘Leave him,’ gasped Michael, sleeve over his mouth. ‘Outside! Quickly!’

Bartholomew staggered after him, stopping only to haul Langelee away from a skirmish with a defiant mercenary. Tulyet yelled the order for his own men to retreat, and they joined a tight pack who pushed and jostled in their desperation to escape. Coughing hard, his eyes stinging so badly he could barely see, Bartholomew reeled gratefully into the fresh air.

It was a chaotic scene. Several of Tulyet’s soldiers had been injured in the fracas, while the Sheriff himself was hastily divesting himself of armour that smoked ominously. Michael reached out to grab Bartholomew’s arm when the physician turned back towards the door.

‘What are you doing? You cannot go back in there!’

‘Dunning and Walkelate,’ gasped Bartholomew, appalled by the speed with which the fire had taken hold. We cannot leave them in there.’

‘Dunning is dead,’ said Langelee, wiping his dagger on some grass.

‘But Walkelate and the mercenaries!’ Bartholomew tried to struggle free.

‘Most were sprayed with wildfire,’ said Dame Pelagia. ‘Even if you do manage to pull them to safety, all you will do is sentence them to a lingering death. It was on their skin, not their clothes.’

‘But Walkelate is–’

At that moment, a window was flung open, and the architect appeared. He was alight, and his mouth opened in a scream that Bartholomew could not hear over the roaring of the flames.