Scholar's Plot (12 page)

“If you can find him I’ll be happy to help you ask, but he’s probably halfway across campus by now. Or snug in his own room.”

“Curse it, I have to find out what he was doing! If he’s part of Mumphrey’s team then their project will beat ours outright. The council offered a prize, you know. Fifty silver roundels…”

They’d already finished with the easily searched garden. Their voices were growing fainter as they walked away.

“…will buy a lot of beer, even split four ways.”

“That’s great — for you and your team. I’ve got a class first thing…”

I waited till they were long gone before I struggled out of the bushes, which made only a slight shushing noise.

Remembering Fisk’s jest about the difference between a bandit and a scholar, I pulled out my purse and tucked a brass roundel deep into one of the coat’s pockets. I then hung it over one of the garden benches, trusting it would make its way back to its owner — with all these identical coats they must put names in them somewhere, if only to get the right coat back from the laundry, and this was the only apology I could make to the man I’d robbed so roughly.

I still had work to do this night, but first I needed to find Fisk. We’d had no time to discuss the matter, but I thought he’d have taken the jeweler back to his tower. He’d already determined the man was being well-treated, and what else could be done with him? Besides, I hoped to catch up with them before the madman was returned to his rooms. That scholar wasn’t the only one who was curious about how he’d changed the color of that phosphor light.

But what I wanted to know was how he controlled his magic.

We stood in the shadows, watching three scholars go chasing after Michael as mindlessly as Trouble chased rabbits. I wished I’d had time to come up with a lie for him to tell if they caught him … though how I could have explained what happened to that lamp, I had no idea.

“Why were you just standing there, making the lamp change color?” I asked my companion critically. “You might as well have put up a sign, ‘Mad Mage on the Loose.’ If they catch you running around out here, you may end up in a real cell.”

“They wanted it,” he said. “I had to oblige.”

But he looked thoughtful, and turned to go back to the tower without resistance.

Aside from a few small distractions, such as waiting for a lad to climb out of some female scholar’s window — we knew it was a girl, because she leaned out to give him a lingering farewell kiss — we made it back to the tower with no trouble.

I headed for the elm, assuming he’d escaped from the yard his windows looked out on. But to my surprise, he took my arm and led me around to the other side of the building. All those windows had been locked last night, but now one of them swung open.

“You got out that way?” I kept my voice down, since the guard was still at his post at the front of the building. “Wasn’t your door locked?”

“What’s a lock when a man has wings? Flew to my love, I did.”

I took that for madness … but then I remembered the way that lamp changed color, and how Michael’s unpredictable magic had saved him when he was thrown off a cliff. He might be telling the simple truth.

For a moment I considered asking him to fly us up to the window, and promptly rejected that idea for several good reasons — not least of them that I had no desire to sprout feathers.

“We could go around and climb the tree,” I said aloud. “But I got caught trying that last time…”

He went with me to fetch the rain barrel, and then refused to help me roll it over to the window, so it took me as long as it had last night. But once I stood it up beneath the sill he climbed up willingly. I gave him a final boost into the room beyond, and he waited there while I followed him up and in.

It was evidently being used for storage, with trunks and boxes full of papers, though the moons shone on the other side of the building so it was too dark to see much.

The door to the hallway was closed, which he might have done himself. But how had he gotten out of his room in the first place?

“Was your door left unlocked?”

“The door? Not to me. I was free.”

He crossed the room and opened the door as if to demonstrate, gesturing for me to precede him like a some baron’s fancy butler. So I did. His room was right across the corridor, and even in the dark I could see bright new splinters where the latch had broken out of the frame.

The back of my neck prickled in primitive warning. Prying open a latched door is the clumsiest form of burglary. It makes a lot of noise, and it shouts to everyone who walks by, Hey, this house is being burgled!

Jonas Bish, who’d taught me house breaking, had once handed me a crowbar and made me do it, so I’d understand why it was so important to learn to pick locks. And that had been a relatively flimsy door.

Whatever had broken this door open had twisted the doorknob in its socket, and bent the iron latch before the frame cracked. And maybe you could somehow muffle the noise that had made with magic … but if you could do that, why not use magic to pick the lock? For that matter, why not go out the window, and simply escape through the courtyard?

The jeweler was mad … but that didn’t mean he was stupid. And if magic had done this, he was definitely going to get locked up in a real cell.

I opened the broken door and stepped into the smashed room beyond. The curtains had been ripped aside and moonlight poured through the windows on this side of the building, displaying the wreckage in the square patches where it shone and obscuring the rest. The scarves and vines had been pulled down from the ceiling, some of them shredded as if with claws. The delicate cages were in splinters.

It looked as if a giant squirrel had rampaged through the room, smashing things in rage and panic.

I didn’t know much about magic — and he was mad, after all. But I couldn’t think of any reason he’d destroy his own work.

The jeweler made a sound of distress, but instead of going to the smashed cages he hurried to the overturned bureau, checking to be sure no squirrels had been caught in the furious destruction. He heaved a relieved sigh when he found no furry bodies, then knelt on the floor, carefully searching for something small.

“Did he do
this
?”

I jumped half a foot, even as I recognized Michael’s voice coming from the doorway behind me.

“What are you…?” But it was obvious what he was doing here, and he would have seen the rain barrel and followed us in.

“How did you lose them?” I asked instead.

“Borrowed a coat.”

He wasn’t wearing it now, which was too bad — it was late enough that we’d stand out among the few scholars who were still wandering the campus. But before I could ask what happened to it, Michael went on, “How could he do all this without the guard hearing him? It must have sounded like a bull was loose in here.”

“Could he have used magic to muffle the noise as he did it?”

The jeweler had been picking up nutmeats, carefully brushing them free of pottery shards. Now he put them on the largest piece of the broken plate, and set it on the sill outside his window. Then he closed and latched it.

“Dinner time’s done,” he said. “Break the law if you come in here, you will.”

“You’re asking me?” Michael’s voice was exasperated. “For all I know he could use magic to pick up the tower, and carry it over the plains. But … would he do this?”

I didn’t see why. On the other hand … well, mad. And I could think of a number of reasons he might feel the kind of rage that could provoke this.

Still…

“If you have to do something noisy during a burglary — opening a money chest you can’t pick, say — Jonas taught me you could wrap blankets or a feather tick around it to muffle the sound.”

The jeweler’s feather tick had been pulled half-off the bed. I went over to look at it and saw nothing… Of course, the light was pretty dim, and I didn’t want to kindle a lamp.

With Michael watching curiously, I ran my hands over the surface. Nothing. I grabbed one corner and folded the thick pad to check the other side … and cursed as I cut my hand on something sharp, embedded in the cloth. I felt more carefully.

“It’s full of splinters and sharp bits. Whoever did this used the mattress to muffle the noise.

I didn’t think madness tried to conceal itself.

“Beds always tell the truth,” said the jeweler, coming over to join us. “Give all the secrets away, beds do. And they know plenty. Life and death, it all ends and begins in beds.”

Michael gestured to the demolished room. “Did you do this?”

“No,” said the jeweler. “Why would I? But the jay birds shrieking it will. Unrestful, birds are, but they can’t help it. It’s the seeds.”

“If he didn’t do this, who did?” I asked. “And why?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said slowly. “But I can think of one thing he did today, that was different from all the days before it.”

“He talked to me.” I had already reached that grim conclusion. “He talked to me, and someone let him out, and tried to make it look like he trashed the place. Who let you out? Did you see them?”

He’d already answered his one direct question for the day.

“The night doesn’t have a face. Went to go dancing, I did, and I did.”

“He said earlier that he was defenestrated,” Michael put in. “That means someone threw—”

“I know what it means. If they tell the student guard he’s missing, tell them he’s dangerous, powerful…”

“What, you think they’d kill him on sight? That’s absurd. The mad are always judged innocent, for they can’t control their actions. ’Tis more likely they thought he’d flee, mayhap to some other town. That would keep him from talking to us, or anyone else, just as surely.”

“And if they caught him, after this, he’d be closely confined,” I said. “Probably somewhere no one is likely to talk to him.”

Somewhere away from windows where squirrels could come in, away from kindly maids who’d comb his hair.

“We can’t leave him here,” I said. “If they’re trying to keep him from talking to us, we need to find out what he knows. But where…?”

“The attic, of course.” Michael sounded absurdly cheerful. “We’re the only ones lodged up there, and Benton can care for him during the day. He needs something to do, anyway. Do you know my brother Benton, Master…?”

“He’s a rat,” the jeweler said promptly. “A rat amongst rabbits.”

“And you think someone’s afraid
he
might tell us something?” I said. “We’ll be lucky if we can get him off the campus and back to our rooms.”

“Do we have a choice?” Michael asked.

I had come to this town to make sure the jeweler was all right. To have him locked up in a cell because I’d gone to see him…

“No. We don’t.”

“But what am I supposed to do with him?” Benton demanded at breakfast the next morning. “He’s a madman, and his magic is said to be dangerous. You can’t just stuff him in the attic like … like a spare coat rack!”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “He settled down nicely last night, and he didn’t object when Fisk locked him in this morning. All you’ll have to do is feed him, get him whatever he needs to amuse himself, and check in on him every now and then.”

“I put him in the room next to mine,” Fisk added. “You probably want to square that with the landlady.”

He’d also found a few trunks — long abandoned, judging by the dust on them — and left the jeweler decorating his new rooms with moth-eaten stockings and old-fashioned hats. He’d seemed reasonably content — and even more content after we’d gone to the convenient tavern across the street and picked up some rolls, sausages, and a pot of butter. We’d taken some of it up to him, and then brought the rest down to share with Benton and Kathy, hoping to soften the blow.

I thought Benton was taking it well, all things considered.

“Did you ask your madman more about the project?” Kathy said. “If he knows something someone’s trying to conceal…”

“Then ‘someone’ wasted their effort,” Fisk said. “He said he could dance with the best of him, and that all the girls thought so, but he’d given his rubies to the moon and had none left for us. We were lucky he kept his mouth shut while we whisked him out the gate.”

Fisk had spotted several scholar’s coats, which had been pegged out on a windowsill to dry after some accident — involving beer, judging by the lingering scent. The man who watched the gate that night wasn’t the blind porter, who might have recognized our voices, and Fisk distracted him with a few questions while I pulled our mad friend past him.

When I’d asked the jeweler how he controlled his magic, he’d said it was easy because his fingers were fish, but that after they’d taken a nibble or two you had to let them wiggle away.

“With any luck,” I said, “we’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with the project, and who framed you and why. Then he can be returned to his keepers none the worse. Once the truth is out there’ll be no danger to him, or anyone else.”

“After we’ve figured out how Hotchkiss’ murder fits into it,” Fisk said, absently patting the dog. True had settled under the table when the basket was unpacked, hoping someone would drop him a forbidden treat. This seldom happened, but dogs are ever optimistic.

Benton had been understandably shocked to learn that Master Hotchkiss was probably a blackmailer.

“I still can’t believe it.”

“He didn’t try to blackmail you?” I asked. “I know you didn’t pay — Professor S was crossed out, and there were never any payments. But we wondered if he tried to use that thesis against you?”

“Of course not!” Benton’s indignation was sincere. “I never heard of that other thesis till Headman Portner called me to his office. In fact, Hotchkiss shared my opinion of cheating — which is why I find it hard to believe he’d do anything like this!”

Kathy frowned. “How do you know how he felt? You said you didn’t know him well.”

“I don’t. But there was a faculty meeting about a month ago, and we walked out together and ended up talking about how important a thesis could be, and how some scholars might be tempted to copy someone else’s…”

We were all staring at him, so incredulously he finally got it.

“You think he was talking about me? Trying to blackmail me? He didn’t say anything of the kind!”

“He wouldn’t,” said Fisk. “If you’d been guilty, you’d have picked up on his hints and probably offered to pay. And he wouldn’t have said ‘Pay up or else,’ either. He would have talked a lot about what would happen to someone who copied their thesis, and then casually mentioned that he’d taken up some expensive hobby, or had some medical needs.”

“His sister,” Benton said. “His sister had some back injury, and he had to pitch in to help pay for her care. Was that it? I have to admit, I wondered why he was telling me. We were never… That is to say, I really didn’t know him well.”

“You mean he was a rotter, and you didn’t like him,” Kathy put in. “And because you hadn’t forged your thesis, all his hints went right over your thick head. That’s why he turned your thesis over to the Headman, because you didn’t pay. Benton, ’tis nothing short of a miracle you weren’t accused of his murder. Stop being so nice. You need to be honest about him. About everyone.”

“But he’s dead!”

“Yes,” said Fisk. “And Kathy’s right about your alibi — it’s downright miraculous, and I don’t trust miracles. But let’s stick with blackmail for now. Can you think of anyone who particularly disliked our brilliant librarian?”

“Well … I don’t really know of anyone who liked him,” Benton admitted. “He was the kind of person whose idea of friendship was to get together and badmouth someone you both disliked. Which can work for a while, but … I’m not really all that surprised. Master Hotchkiss could be pretty malicious. Anyone who hated him would be lost in the crowd of everyone who disliked him.”

“That’s not very helpful,” I said.

“But not unexpected,” Fisk pointed out. “Blackmailers don’t usually have lots of friends. What about the initials? Do they mean anything to you?”

He pushed some dishes aside, and spread the ledger pages out on the table. Kathy abandoned her dinner to lean over and study them, while Benton’s gaze shied away. He didn’t want to think ill of his colleagues, to pry at their secrets. But the puzzle of it tugged at his intellect, and soon he was staring at the cryptic notes as avidly as the rest of us.

“Two single victims,” Kathy said. “And two sets. Though since one of the second set, hammer D, isn’t paying, five victims in all.”

“What about A and H,” Fisk asked. “Maybe a couple, paying together?”

“This looks like a man who sticks to his systems,” Kathy said. “And I don’t think that’s an A. ’Tis a draftsman’s compass.”

Once she’d said it, ’twas so clear that Fisk and I shared a look of dismay at being outwitted by a mere girl.

“All right, Benton,” I said. “’Tis time. Do you know who any of these people might be?”

“It’s blackmail.” Benton sounded most uncomfortable, kindly soul that he is. “If ’tis something they’d pay to keep secret, how would I know about it? Except…” He tweaked PN’s page out of the pile. “There are rumors that Professor Nilcomb takes … takes an undue interest in some of the female students.”

“You mean he seduces them,” Fisk said. “And pays with better grades?”

“Or threatens them with poor grades if they refuse.” Kathy’s voice was tight with anger and disgust, but Benton shook his head.

“’Tis not like that. Many of the girls aren’t even in his classes, and those that are seem to get the grade their work deserves. There was a girl in one of my classes, when I was a first year — basic literary composition, a required course. She got a sixty-five, and the only reason anyone was surprised was because it was so low, with all the ‘extra tutoring’ she’d had. And they didn’t make it obvious, not in class. But sometimes their eyes would meet, and you’d look at their faces and it was … obvious. I couldn’t prove anything.”

Fisk turned the sheet over. “He’s paying higher than the others. Five gold roundels a month. I didn’t think professors got paid that much.”

“He’s married,” Benton said miserably. “To the daughter of a man who owns a paper mill here, and shares of lumber mills in other towns. She’s his only child, too. And for what ’tis worth, I’ve never heard that any girl he slept with was in the least unwilling. In fact, a few years ago one of them made a fuss when he … when he moved on. They kept it from the faculty, but when one girl goes to another’s room and calls her a scheming slut at the top of her lungs … well.”

Kathy, I was sorry to see, looked less distasteful at that, and Fisk grinned.

“So who’s Professor B?” I asked. “And what’s his scandal with scales M. Scales might signify a merchant. Or a judicar, for the scales of justice.”

“Or a moneylender,” said Fisk. “Or a banker.”

“There’s only one person on the staff whose last name starts with B,” Benton said. “And Professor Bollinger can’t be your killer, because he was at the lecture too. The teachers sit to the left and right of the dais, and I saw him there.”

Looking up at the place where he’d once sat? Benton was putting a brave face on it, but I know my brother.

“What about Professor Nilcomb?” I asked. “Was he there?”

Benton frowned. “I don’t think … I didn’t notice him. But teachers sometimes sit with the scholars. I might have missed him. And I have no idea who ‘scales M 87’ is, or why Stephan 20 is important. Assuming that’s a year, and not another name.”

“Do you know Professor Bollinger well?” Kathy asked.

“Not really. He teaches law, so I never took a course from him, but I’ve never heard a whisper of—”

“So the scales probably do signify a judicar.” ’Twas nice to be right about something.

“And eighty-seven,” Fisk said slowly. “A test score, for some M who graduated that year? Final exams are graded one to a hundred, aren’t they? And for law students, the score matters.”

“Sixty five is a passing grade in most fields,” Benton said. “Including law. But ’tis hard to get hired with a score lower than an eighty. But this is pure speculation! That 87 might be someone’s age, or … or…”

There weren’t that many possibilities.

“A book number,” I suggested. “One of Master Hotchkiss’ numbers for everything? What subject is 87?”

I’d been half-joking, though now that I thought on it, the man who’d invented that system might use his own numbers as a reference. But Benton was shaking his head.

“All the system numbers have at least three digits,” he said. “Most often more, for subdivisions of a subject. For instance,” he plucked out another sheet, “I’m pretty sure these are book numbers. And the numbers after the dashes refer to the page.”

He gestured to the number strings after A … no, compass H’s initial.

“284.629 – 42,” Fisk read. “And 443.04272 – 297. What subjects are they?”

“The four hundreds are the sciences,” Benton said. “Beyond that I’d have to look at the master tables to tell you.”

“It’s something we can check,” Fisk said. “And speaking of checking…” He pulled out Hotchkiss’ lecture pass and laid it on the table. “Benton, how did you get a pass for that lecture? Who gave it to you?”

“I don’t know. Someone gave it to my landlord, with a note ’twas for me. I took it for a gesture of kindness from one of my friends, but no one told me they sent it. Why does it matter?”

Benton might have been puzzled, but Kathy stiffened alertly.

“You think someone gave him an alibi for the murder? Why? ’Twould make more sense for the killer to want someone else to take the blame.”

“For an ordinary murderer that would be true,” said Fisk. “But a blackmail victim might be a perfectly nice person — or at least, not want someone else, maybe even a friend, to hang for a crime they committed. And Benton’s quarrel with Hotchkiss was fresh in everyone’s mind.”

“I didn’t quarrel with him,” Benton objected. “I knew he had no choice but to come forward with what he found.”

Fisk brushed this aside. “The killer gave the most obvious suspect an alibi. Then he tried to make it look like the work of some anonymous burglar, who’d never be caught because no one would be fencing any loot. I think our killer has more of a conscience than his victim. Benton, do you still have the note that came with your pass?”

“I don’t… I might.” Benton went to his desk and fished among the papers there.

If Fisk was right about this, if Hotchkiss’ murder led us to whoever had framed Benton, and the project had naught to do with it … but I didn’t believe that. All that money, all that prestige, and Benton in the midst of it. The project had to be the source of the whole affair — not some sordid blackmail scheme that had nothing to do with my brother!

“Ha!” Benton carried two bits of paper back to us, one half sheet, and one roughly a quarter. “Here’s my pass and the note that came with it.”

The note said:
Thought you might enjoy this
. There was no signature.

“Plain printing,” said Kathy. “Schoolroom style. Do you recognize the writing?”

Benton shook his head.