Murder by the Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    ‘They enrolled because they are interested in alchemy and Batayl owns two books on the subject,’ interrupted Bonabes irritably. The other scribes also looked annoyed by the stationer’s disparaging remarks. ‘There is nothing unsavoury about the association.’
    ‘If you say so,’ sniffed Weasenham, making it clear that he would think what he liked. He turned to Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Now what did you want to tell me?’
    ‘I am afraid we bring bad news.’ Michael took a deepbreath to steel himself. ‘Adam is dead. The Sheriff’s men found him by the river this morning.’
    There was a crash as Bonabes knocked over an inkwell, his face white with horror. Weasenham gripped a table for support, and the other scriveners clamoured their disbelief.
    ‘No!’ whispered Bonabes. ‘You are mistaken. Adam cannot be dead!’
    The noise brought Weasenham’s wife running. He had recently remarried, and it was no surprise that he had opted for a lady who matched his wealth and social standing. Ruth Dunning, the elder of Sir Eustace’s two daughters, was a pretty woman with dark hair and arresting eyes.
    ‘What is the matter?’ she cried, bending down to mop up the mess Bonabes had made. ‘Help me, quickly, or this will stain.’
    ‘Never mind the floor,’ said Weasenham shakily. ‘Brother Michael has news.’
    Michael told what little he knew, then tried to answer the distraught questions that followed. Bonabes was the most distressed, because he and Adam had started to work for Weasenham at the same time, and the older man had harboured a fatherly affection for the eager youngster. Ruth put a compassionate hand on his arm while he wept.
    ‘Bonabes is French,’ whispered Weasenham, to explain the Exemplarius’s unmanly display. ‘But I still think I must be dreaming. Adam! How can this be true?’
    ‘The Sheriff will visit you soon,’ said Michael. ‘When he comes, please tell him everything you can about Adam’s last movements. It may help him catch the killer.’
    ‘Adam said he would come in early today, to help finish the Aristotle,’ sobbed Bonabes. ‘I was surprised when he failed to appear, and I wish to God I had gone to lookfor him. I might have been able to save …’ He could not finish.
    ‘It would have made no difference,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘His body was cold, and I suspect he died yesterday, not this morning.’
    ‘The rest of us stayed here all last night, working,’ said Ruth. ‘The demand for exemplars is very high at the moment, you see. But Adam is still recovering from his summer ague, so we sent him home when it grew dark, although he objected to being singled out for favoured treatment.’
    ‘Oh, no!’ breathed Bonabes, ashen-faced. ‘Please do not say that is why he died – because we sent him out at dusk, thinking to be kind.’
    It was highly likely, but neither Michael nor Bartholomew wanted to add to their anguish by saying so. Michael shook his head reassuringly, while Bartholomew, never good at prevaricating, stared at his feet. When the scribes were calmer, the monk resumed his questioning.
    ‘None of you left?’ he asked, looking at each in turn. ‘Not even for a moment?’
    ‘No,’ replied Weasenham. ‘We were too busy. So, if your question aims to determine whether any of us killed him, you are barking up the wrong tree.’
    ‘Who did this terrible thing?’ demanded Bonabes, grief giving way to anger. ‘Adam did not have an enemy in the world – he was a polite, quiet lad. And he was like a son to me …’
    ‘Dick Tulyet believes smugglers might be to blame,’ replied Michael.
    ‘Smugglers,’ spat Weasenham. ‘I hate them! They flood the town with untaxed supplies that make mine seem expensive. And now Adam … How could they? He was just a child!’
    Bartholomew and Michael left them to their mourning, and stepped into the High Street. The day was getting warmer as the sun climbed higher