Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) by Gregory Susanna

Author:Gregory, Susanna [Gregory, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780748126064
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2012-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

It was not far from Bene’t College to Cholles Lane, and it took only a few moments for Bartholomew to run the distance, Cynric at his heels. It was now pitch black, and the streets smelled of warm dust and horse manure, overlain with the dank, rich odour of the river.

The door to Batayl was open, and Bartholomew walked inside to find the hostel deserted. Raised voices told him that everyone was in the tiny garden, which was accessed through a second door at the back of the house. Batayl’s eight students, Browne, Michael and two beadles were crammed into it, all clustered around Coslaye, who lay on the ground.

‘Perhaps you should take your lads inside, Browne,’ Michael was saying. ‘There is no need for them to witness this sad sight.’

‘There is every need,’ Browne snapped. ‘Their Principal has been most wickedly slain by Carmelites, and they should see this vile handiwork.’

‘Enough,’ said Michael warningly. ‘We must assess the evidence before—’

‘Evidence be damned!’ shouted Browne. ‘We all know who did this terrible thing.’

The students howled their support, and it was not easy for Bartholomew to dodge through their waving fists to reach Coslaye. He managed, finally, shoving his new bestiary at Cynric, and inspecting the fallen Principal in the feeble light shed from a lamp held by Pepin.

Coslaye lay on his front, arms thrown out to the sides. He had been dealt a substantial blow from behind, heavy enough to smash his skull. An examination revealed no other suspicious marks, except a bad bruise on his left foot.

‘How did he come by this?’ he asked.

‘It probably happened in Newe Inn, which is always littered with dangerous bits of wood and tools,’ said Browne, his sullen expression making it clear that he considered the injury of far less importance than the one to Coslaye’s head, which had killed him. ‘Walkelate is always inviting us in there, probably in the hope that we will be maimed – in revenge for us opposing his stupid library.’

Bartholomew inspected the foot more closely, and deduced that something sharp had struck it, such as might have happened if a dagger had been lobbed. He stared at the mark. Had Coslaye been among the men who had ambushed him, injured by one of Pelagia’s knives? But why would he want a formula for wildfire? Or had Coslaye been hurt attacking the castle, and Robin had seen him among the raiders? But Coslaye claimed to have been quarrelling with the Carmelites at the time, and so could not have been wielding a sword.

Michael nodded to his beadles, who began to usher the Batayl men back into their hostel. They objected, particularly Browne, but the beadles were used to recalcitrant academics, and soon had them where they wanted them to be.

‘What can you tell me, Matt?’ asked Michael, once they had gone.

‘That Coslaye was hit from behind with something heavy. And that the damage to his foot is several days older.’

‘Did he know his killer? Or is this the work of a stranger?’

Bartholomew regarded him askance.

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