Murder by the Book by Susanna Gregory

study at night – it was often the only time they had to themselves – the Librarian was not in the habit of depriving himself of sleep to perform his duties.
    ‘Rob?’ Bartholomew called softly. ‘Why are you here? Are you unwell?’
    Deynman jumped. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
    ‘I could not sleep.’ Bartholomew frowned when he saw Deynman’s red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. ‘What is the matter? Is your father ill? Or your brother?’
    ‘They are well,’ sniffed Deynman. ‘It is something else that is destroying my happiness.’
    Bartholomew sat next to him, supposing he was about to be regaled with some tale of unrequited love. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said kindly. ‘Tell me what—’
    ‘You can do nothing,’ said Deynman bitterly. ‘
You
were one of the villains who voted for it.’
    ‘The Common Library?’ Bartholomew was bemused, but then understood what was bothering the lad. ‘You are afraid it will render your post obsolete! Well, you need not worry. Master Langelee told me only yesterday that there was no one he trusted more with our books.’
    Deynman was unconvinced. ‘But if the likes of you have their way, we shall have no books.’ He ran a loving finger across the one that lay in front of him; its leather cover had been buffed to within an inch of its life, and shone rather artificially. ‘They will all be in this Common Library, where undergraduates will be able to get at them.’
    ‘But that is a good thing,’ said Bartholomew, struggling not to smile at the disapproval Deynman had managed to inject into the word ‘undergraduates’. ‘They are here to learn, and access to the works they are required to study is—’
    ‘But they do not need to
handle
them!’ cried Deynman, distraught. ‘They can listen to a master reading. Or, if they must see the words themselves, they can hire an exemplar. They do not need to see the original texts. To
touch
them.’ He shuddered at such a terrible notion.
    ‘But books are meant to be read,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘And—’
    ‘They are meant to be cherished, not mauled by grubby students. You should have voted properly at the Convocation – you were Michaelhouse’s only dissenter. And you shouldbe careful, because I heard what happened to Northwood, Vale and the Londons.’
    Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
    Deynman pursed his lips. ‘Vale voted against the wishes of his Gonville colleagues; the London brothers voted against their friends at Batayl; and Northwood voted against his Carmelites. All supported that evil Common Library. And now they have been murdered for their perfidy.’
    Bartholomew supposed that all four had backed the grace to found the Common Library, but that had been six weeks ago, and he was inclined to believe it was coincidence.
    ‘We do not know for certain that they have been murdered,’ he said, although without much conviction. ‘I have not examined them yet.’
    ‘Well, when you do, you will find that they are dead by the hand of someone who deplores traitors,’ said Deynman firmly. Then his expression changed from angry to concerned. ‘Are you unwell, sir? You are very pale, and you keep gripping your stomach. Perhaps I had better fetch you some milksops from the kitchens. Do not look alarmed. I shall not poison them.’
    ‘I did not think you would,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the notion. ‘And I do not need anything to—’
    But Deynman had gone, leaving Bartholomew wondering whether he should have voted against the Common Library after all. It would have meant going against his principles, but he compromised those all the time – when he failed to tell people that his more successful medical techniques had been learned from his Arab teacher; when he opted not to share innovative theories with his fellow physicians because he did not want to be accused of heterodoxy; and when he concealed his reliance on certain ‘heretical’ texts.And opposing the library