Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory Page A

like.’
    ‘But it is true,’ objected Cynric, stung. ‘I told you this garden had a sinister aura, and the presence of corpses here proves it.’
    ‘I had better do it now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The tale is already out that bodies have been found, and people have gathered in the lane outside, clamouring to know names. Apparently, several people have gone missing over the last few weeks, and their loved ones are eager for answers. Perhaps, like Browne, these four had a penchant for Newe Inn’s fish.’
    ‘That is unlikely,’ said Michael. ‘One careless poacher might have fallen in, or even two, but not more.’
    Bartholomew lifted the blanket that covered the first. The body was fresh, and he doubted it had been immersed for more than a day. He inspected it quickly.
    ‘There is no sign of a slit throat. Or any other wound for that matter, although I will look more carefully tomorrow.’
    Michael frowned. ‘A slit throat?’
    ‘Like the beggar, Tulyet’s night-watchman and Adam,’ explained Bartholomew. He shrugged at the monk’s bemused expression. ‘You are right in that four people are unlikely to have died of natural causes here, so unless we have two killers on the loose …’
    ‘But Dick said the others were probably executed because they saw smugglers. Smugglers will not be operating in the grounds of Newe Inn, so the two cases cannot possibly be connected.’
    Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He stared at the corpse’s unfamiliar features. Its clothes indicated aman of some substance, because they were of excellent quality and almost new. The same was true of the next victim, who bore an uncanny likeness to the first. Both had deeply ink-stained fingers.
    ‘Have any brothers been reported missing?’ he asked. ‘Clerks, perhaps, or scribes?’
    ‘Yes – and you were there when it happened.’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Philip and John London, who work in the stationer’s shop. Weasenham mentioned they were late for work today.’
    ‘He also said they were members of Batayl,’ said Bartholomew, glancing in its direction. ‘Which lies next door, and whose scholars raised the alarm about a corpse here.’
    ‘Not
these
corpses, though. They were underwater, and invisible until you stirred them up.’
    ‘Are these the London brothers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I never met them.’
    Michael peered at them. ‘Yes, more is the pity. They have helped Weasenham quietly and efficiently ever since the Death.’
    The plague that had scoured the civilised world, killing entire communities in a matter of days, had been such a terrible experience that people nearly always used it to refer to events in the past – everything was either before the Death or after it. Bartholomew covered the brothers, and removed the blanket that had been placed over the next victim.
    ‘Northwood!’ he exclaimed in horror. He looked up at Michael with a stricken expression. ‘He is the Carmelite who voted in favour of the Common Library – against the wishes of his colleagues. I liked him, Brother. He gave my fellow
medici
and me some helpful advice about developing our clean-burning lamp fuel.’
    ‘I knew him only by reputation – for his lively mind and interest in alchemy. Who is the last?’
    Bartholomew pulled the cover from the fourth body, and pushed the sodden hair away from its face. It was the one with the arrow in its back. He recoiled with shock a second time.
    ‘It is Vale,’ he said in a voice that was not quite steady. ‘The Gonville Hall physician. No wonder he was not at the Convocation earlier! His colleagues mentioned his absence, if you recall.’
    ‘Vale?’ echoed Michael. ‘But this makes no sense! What do a friar, two scriveners and a
medicus
have in common?’
    Bartholomew did not know, but the day seemed suddenly colder and darker.
    Dismayed and saddened by what he had seen, Bartholomew was tempted to ignore Michael’s recommendation to leave the examinations until the