Free Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory

four in turn. ‘Bring your grievances to me at St Mary the Great tomorrow, and we shall attempt to resolve the matter amicably.’ He raised a plump hand when all four began to object. ‘Not another word, or I shall fine all for breaching the peace.’
    ‘Who told you that the University was going to sell Newe Inn’s garden to the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew of the Batayl men in the resentful silence that followed. ‘Because Michael is right: Tynkell would never have made such an offer.’
    ‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Browne, regarding him with dislike. ‘No one invited you to join this discussion.’
    ‘There is no need to be rude,’ snapped Coslaye. ‘I owe Bartholomew my life, in case you do not recall. He even waived his fee for the help he gave me, on account of our poverty.’
    ‘Yes, but the Devil probably paid him in kind,’ said Riborowe slyly. ‘I have heard that Satan is partial to poring over exposed brains. It amuses him.’
    ‘And how do
you
come to be party to Satan’s preferences, pray?’ asked Michael archly. He turned to Browne while the Carmelite was still floundering about for a suitable reply. ‘Matt posed a good question. Who told you this tale?’
    ‘The stationer,’ replied Browne. ‘Not that it is—’
    ‘Weasenham!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘His lying tongue will see our town in flames yet. But we shall discuss this tomorrow. Good evening, gentlemen.’
    Riborowe opened his mouth to object to the curt dismissal, but Jorz grabbed his arm and pulled him away, sensing it was unwise to irritate the Senior Proctor further.
    ‘The experiment we are running with the ink should be finished by now, Riborowe,’ he muttered. ‘Let us return to the scriptorium and see the results.’
    ‘I am complaining to the Bishop about you, Brother,’ called Riborowe threateningly over his shoulder, struggling to free himself from Jorz’s grip. ‘You run the University like a tyrant.’
    ‘Try it,’ shouted Coslaye challengingly. ‘It will do you no good. He is the Bishop’s spy, and he has accrued his power with de Lisle’s approval and connivance.’
    Bartholomew suspected that was true: Michael could not have reached such dizzying heights without thebacking of some extremely influential supporters. ‘How are you feeling, Coslaye?’ he asked, eager to change the subject to one that was less contentious; Michael was looking angry. ‘Any headaches?’
    Coslaye sniffed. ‘Yes, a great big one. It is called the Carmelites!’
    ‘We should have asked whether they have noticed any suspicious behaviour around Newe Inn’s pond recently,’ said Bartholomew, once he and Michael were alone again. ‘The Carmelites and Batayl Hostel are among its nearest neighbours, after all.’
    ‘I considered it, but tempers were running too high – both sides might have invented stories just to see the other discredited. I shall quiz them tomorrow, when they are calmer. But we had better speak to Weasenham about gossip that disturbs the peace. Will you come with me?’
    ‘What, now?’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘It is getting late and I am tired.’
    ‘Yes, now,’ replied Michael firmly. ‘Who knows what damage the man might do if we delay?’
    On warm summer evenings, the University stationer could usually be found sitting on the bench outside his shop, enjoying the fading daylight and devising salacious and invariably fictitious tales about passers-by. He was there that night, Ruth on one side, and Bonabes on the other. He was uncharacteristically subdued, though, while Bonabes was pale and Ruth had been crying.
    ‘Is it true?’ asked the Exemplarius, coming quickly to his feet as Michael and Bartholomew approached. ‘You found Philip and John London in Newe Inn’s pond?’
    Michael nodded. ‘News travels fast, it seems.’
    ‘We heard it from one of your beadles,’ explained Weasenham. ‘It is a wretched shame, especially after poorAdam. I know scribes are ten a penny