The vivid mural had been obliterated with a smart wash of white, and the sour smell of feet and burnt fat was overlain by the sweeter scent of rose petals. Bartholomew could only suppose that Holm had supplied his lover Browne with them, as he had supplied Walkelate with a remedy for Newe Inn’s reeking oil. ‘Browne made some changes when he declared himself Principal,’ explained Pepin, assuming the role of spokesman in the absence of his seniors. ‘I, for one, was glad to see the painting go.’ ‘I am sure you were,’ said Michael, looking hard at him. ‘It cannot have been pleasant for you, seeing your countrymen depicted as demons wading through oceans of blood.’ ‘No, and I often felt like punching Coslaye.’ Pepin flushed when he realised the remark was somewhat incriminating. ‘But I did not kill him. That was someone else – someone who is eager for the Common Library to open, and who was afraid Coslaye might have interfered.’ ‘Would he have interfered?’ asked Michael.
