Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory Page B

following morning, and do it straight away. But he had been up most of the previous night with a patient and knew better than to undertake such an important task when his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep. He followed Michael and Cynric through the garden to the small gate that led into Cholles Lane.
    ‘Walkelate and his craftsmen were no help,’ said Michael, once he had reported what little he knew about the victims to the anxious crowd outside, and was walking away. ‘The pond cannot be seen from the house, and neither can the gate. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, despite the fact that they work on that accursed building all the hours God gives.’
    ‘I will ask around,’ offered Cynric. ‘Someone will have noticed something peculiar, because four men do not die with no witnesses.’
    ‘I hope you are right,’ said the monk fervently. ‘Do you mind starting now?’
    Because it was a pretty evening, the streets were busy, and Michael and Bartholomew met a number of people they knew as they walked to Michaelhouse, some enjoying a relaxing stroll and others going home after work. The physician’s sister and her husband were among the former. They were deep in conversation, and Edith’s worried frown deepened when she saw her brother.
    ‘We were just talking about your grisly discovery at Newe Inn, Matt,’ she said sympathetically. ‘The tale is already all over the town. It must have been horrible for you.’
    ‘Do you know the names of the victims yet?’ Oswald Stanmore was a wealthy cloth merchant, a handsome, grey-haired man with a neat beard and fine clothes.
    Bartholomew nodded. ‘Vale, Northwood and the London brothers.’
    Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay. ‘Not Northwood! He was a lovely man, and often came to our house to talk about cloth-dyeing. He was interested in such things.’
    ‘He was,’ agreed Stanmore, shaken. ‘He liked anything to do with mixing different ingredients together, and recommended several improvements that saved me a lot of money. He was interested in your efforts to create a clean-burning lamp, Matt, and wanted to be part of it.’
    Bartholomew nodded again. ‘Unfortunately, Rougham and Holm will only experiment with other
medici
, and refused his offer. It was a pity, because I think he would have been useful.’
    ‘He would,’ whispered Cynric to Michael. ‘And they should have accepted his help, because they are making scant progress on their own. Personally, I suspect they will never succeed.’
    ‘I wish you would hurry up with it, Matt,’ said Stanmore. ‘I should like to be able to work winter nights without straining my eyes. So would many other folk, and I predict your non-flickering lamp will make you very rich, although I know money is not what drives you.’
    Bartholomew did not reply. He was feeling despondent, partly because he hated to admit that several months of experiments had produced nothing worthwhile, but mostly because of what had happened to Vale and Northwood.
    ‘It seems to me that half of Cambridge is busy trying to invent something at the moment,’ said Edith. ‘The
medici
with clean-burning fuel, Northwood with dyes, the Carmelites with ink, Weasenham with paper-making, to name but a few.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘It all began in January, when a deputation of scholars from Oxford came and bragged about some experiments they were conducting. As you can imagine, our Regents hated the prospect of being outshone by the Other Place, so quite a number of them turned inventor.’
    ‘Is that what has prompted this recent spirit of enquiry?’ asked Edith, amused. ‘A desire not to be bested by academic rivals?’
    ‘Partly,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is also about being more attractive to benefactors and patrons. And about drawing the best students. Applications to study here have increased tenfold since some of our Regents have become alchemists.’
    ‘I imagine they have,’ said Stanmore dryly. ‘These