Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Now go to bed,’ she ordered. ‘And not a sound until morning, or you will answer to me.’

  Dickon went without a word, and Mistress Tulyet followed, her face full of startled wonder. Edith grinned wanly once she and Bartholomew were alone.

  ‘I learned how to deal with naughty children when I raised you.’

  ‘I hardly think I was anything like Dickon,’ objected Bartholomew.

  ‘No, but you were worse than Richard by a considerable margin. He was an angel, and it is difficult to understand what has happened to him.’

  ‘There is still time for him to settle down,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not believe it, and neither did she. Richard was well into his twenties, so youthful exuberance could no longer be blamed for the deficiencies in his character.

  ‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ Edith began. ‘Last night, I said it was your fault that Oswald died, because you were away when he was ill. It was unkind – I know he would have passed away regardless. Yet I cannot escape the sense that something was amiss…’

  ‘Many bereaved people do,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘It is perfectly natural.’

  She shot him a baleful look. ‘This is different. And I hate to admit it, but perhaps Richard was right about me sorting through that chest. There was a document this morning…’

  ‘What did it say?’

  Edith glanced around quickly before lowering her voice. ‘It is all rather unclear, but I think Oswald charged too much for a consignment of cloth that went to King’s Hall. The figures do not tally, and his notes on the transaction seem to imply that he knew it.’

  Bartholomew could hardly say that he was not surprised. ‘Perhaps you should let Richard sort through these records. He did offer.’

  Edith grimaced. ‘I am not sure he is capable, to be frank. And nor would he appreciate being obliged to work when he could be out drinking with his cronies. Thank God Oswald left the business to me. Richard would have sold it by now – or run it into the ground with ineptitude – which would have been a disaster for the people we employ.’

  Bartholomew agreed, but felt it would be disloyal to say so. ‘Is he going to the meeting of the Guild of Saints? I heard that one has been called.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Wine will be served afterwards.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of words that might comfort her. None came to mind.

  Edith sighed unhappily. ‘He told me this morning that several friends have applied to Winwick Hall, so he has decided to stay on here, to enjoy their lively company. I never thought I would say it, Matt, but I wish he would leave Cambridge and go back to London. Just because I am a widow does not mean that I want a grown son under my feet – especially one who has an annoying aversion to anything that might be considered work.’

  ‘He will not be here much longer,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Carousing will be forbidden to his scholar friends once term starts, so he will find himself drinking alone. He will soon tire of it.’

  Edith gave him a hopeful smile and changed the subject. ‘There are a lot of nasty rumours circulating at the moment, including one about Michael…’

  ‘That he intends to inflict the Michaelhouse Choir on the beginning of term ceremony? It will not make our College very popular.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, does he?’ gulped Edith. ‘I had no idea. Perhaps that is why the Guild has called an emergency meeting – to discuss ways to prevent it. But I was talking about the gossip that says he arranged for Felbrigge to be shot for daring to set covetous eyes on the senior proctorship.’

  ‘Then the gossipmongers do not know Michael. He is perfectly capable of defeating rivals through non-fatal means.’

  ‘I am just reporting what is being said. However, the only way to put a stop to these nasty tales is by finding the real killer.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘The only problem being a marked absence of clues.’

  It was not long before Mistress Tulyet reported with a relieved sigh that Dickon was asleep. The servants began to creep back, speaking in whispers lest they woke the brat, while the horse that had sparked the incident was whisked away to safety. Bartholomew walked Edith to the Guild of Saints’ headquarters, a timber-framed hall near St Clement’s Church. She was still a member, although a less active one since inheriting her husband’s large and complex business.

  She faltered at the door, assailed by memories of happier times, so Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her inside. He would not be permitted to stay long, but no one would mind him escorting her to Richard. He entered the main chamber, and was astonished to find it packed with people – the Guild had not been half as big in Stanmore’s day. Most members stood, while the officers and more important individuals sat on a long bench at the front.

  ‘I thought this was an exclusive organisation,’ he whispered. ‘Open only to wealthy folk who are willing to be generous to the poor.’

  ‘It is. But people clamour to join because it is prestigious – a symbol of high status. Anyone who can pay an entrance fee is enrolled these days. Unlike when Oswald was in charge.’

  Bartholomew said nothing, but knew for a fact that Stanmore had not been as particular as she believed. For a start, he had admitted Potmoor, a man who was openly proud of his criminal achievements. Bartholomew glanced around, suddenly uneasy. He had not seen Potmoor since tending him on his ‘deathbed’ and had no wish to renew the acquaintance.

  ‘Is John Knyt here?’ asked Edith, struggling to see over the heads of the people in front. ‘He is our Secretary, but I can only hear his assistant de Stannell speaking.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I cannot abide de Stannell – he has sly fingers in every pie.’

  ‘Deputy Sheriff de Stannell? He is Assistant Secretary of the Guild as well?’

  ‘He seems to like being second in command,’ said Edith with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Or perhaps he intends to oust both his betters, and run shire and Guild at the same time.’

  Aware that he would soon be asked to leave, Bartholomew looked around for Richard, but his eye lit on Julitta instead. She would look after Edith. He steered his sister towards her, glad that Holm had abandoned his wife for Hugo, with whom he was muttering and giggling.

  ‘I thought you told me that they had quarrelled,’ he said, watching the pair in distaste. It was inappropriate behaviour for two grown men in a public place.

  ‘They made up,’ Julitta replied, and Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger against Holm when he saw the misery in her eyes. She made an obvious effort to suppress it, and smiled as she brought Edith up to date with the meeting’s progress. ‘We are discussing the Michaelhouse Choir. Potmoor says they should be allowed to sing at the ceremony next week. Everyone else disagrees.’

  ‘Then let us hope the majority prevails,’ said Edith fervently, ‘or the occasion will be ruined. Oswald always said that he could not hear himself think once they started caterwauling.’

  Heads together, she and Julitta began to exchange tales of their experiences with the singers, and seeing Edith was in kindly hands, Bartholomew aimed for the door. A number of Stanmore’s old friends nodded amiable greetings as he passed, and the patriarch of the powerful Frevill clan came to offer belated condolences.

  ‘I miss him,’ he sighed. ‘And I am sorry to say it, Bartholomew, but your nephew is not his equal. Not by a long way.’

  It was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it to a man he barely knew. He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and was almost at the door when he was intercepted by another guildsman – Potmoor. He experienced a stab of alarm when the felon smiled, as there was something not entirely nice about the expression.

  Potmoor looked like a criminal. He had small, shifty eyes, a flamboyant moustache of the kind favoured by pirates, and thinning hair kept in place by the application of copious amounts of goose-grease. He was not very big, yet he exuded an aura of evil menace, and Bartholomew was perfectly prepared to believe the many tales about
his barbarity, greed and ruthlessness.

  ‘I never thanked you,’ Potmoor said. ‘For bringing me back from the dead.’

  ‘You were not dead,’ replied Bartholomew, although he knew he was wasting his time: Potmoor was enjoying the prestige that accrued from his so-called resurrection. ‘Catalepsia is—’

  ‘I was dead, and I saw the bright glory of Heaven,’ countered Potmoor, a little dangerously.

  ‘It was an illusion. There were a lot of candles burning in your bedchamber that night.’

  ‘I know what I saw. Or are you telling me that I mistook you and your medical colleagues for God and His angels?’ Potmoor gave a low, creaking laugh.

  Bartholomew frowned, taking in the man’s pale face and unsteady hands. ‘Yet you are still not recovered. What ails you? Headaches? Fevers?’

  ‘Headaches, which I attribute to setting eyes on the face of Our Lord. Meryfeld’s remedies were worthless, so I dismissed him, and hired Master Lawrence instead. Provost Illesy recommended him, as he was once medicus to Queen Isabella, although he has not cured me either. Would you like the job? I am a very rich man.’

  ‘I have too many patients already,’ said Bartholomew, trotting out the excuse he had used the last time Potmoor had asked. ‘I am sure Lawrence will find a medicine that helps you soon.’

  It was a lie, as he was not sure at all. Such symptoms should have eased by now, and their persistence did not bode well. Potmoor launched into another subject.

  ‘Has your sister recovered from her tragic loss?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, recalling that Oswald had vigorously opposed Potmoor’s expansion into Cambridge and his untimely death had certainly been to Potmoor’s advantage. Naturally, there had been rumours, although they had fizzled out eventually, due to a lack of evidence. However, Bartholomew did not like the smirk on the felon’s face.

  ‘Pity.’ Potmoor changed tack yet again. ‘Hugo informs me that we never paid you for bringing me back to life. I would rather have remained in Heaven, of course, but I am not a man who reneges on his debts. Here is your fee.’

  ‘There is no need.’ Bartholomew refused to take the proffered purse. He was being watched, and it would do his reputation no good whatsoever to be seen accepting money from such a man.

  ‘I hope you are not suggesting that my life is not worth it,’ said Potmoor coldly.

  ‘No, of course not, but—’

  ‘Good.’ Potmoor grabbed Bartholomew’s hand and slapped the pouch into it. ‘From what I hear, your College could do with a windfall.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Was this an admission that Potmoor had raided Michaelhouse?

  Potmoor smiled, and Bartholomew struggled to prevent himself from shuddering at its reptilian nature. ‘Just that I am sure you can put my donation to good use.’

  Bartholomew left the guildhall confused and unsettled. He shoved the purse into his medical bag, disliking the greasy touch of it on his fingers. The encounter had made him feel grubby, and he hated to think how the exchange would be interpreted by the people who had witnessed it. He swore under his breath, wishing he had had the sense to cut the conversation short.

  His reverie was interrupted when someone collided with him so heavily that he was almost knocked off his feet. The culprit did not stop, but continued down Bridge Street, head bowed and hands tucked inside his green cloak. One of Bartholomew’s patients saw the incident.

  ‘Some folk got no manners,’ he muttered. His name was Noll Verius, a slovenly, loutish ditcher who was not known for courteous behaviour himself. ‘It is because you are a scholar, see. The University is unpopular with normal folk at the moment.’

  He went on his way before Bartholomew could respond, moving so fast that the physician wondered if he aimed to catch up with the fellow and berate him for his clumsiness. Bartholomew started to call out to stop him, but suddenly became aware of the acrid stench of burning. It was coming from St Clement’s Church, along with the sound of drunken singing. Bemused, he recognised the voice of its vicar, William Heyford, a man noted for preaching vicious sermons against the University. But Heyford claimed to be an abstemious soul who rarely touched wine, so Bartholomew went to investigate. Smoke billowed out as he opened the door, and he could hear flames devouring dry wood within.

  ‘Fire!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

  No passer-by needed to be reminded of the dangers of a blaze in a town where houses were timber-built and thatch-roofed. There was an instant flurry of activity. Buckets, bowls and even boots were frantically filled with water from the well, but the effort was disorganised and far too much of the precious liquid was spilled as it was slopped towards the burning building.

  With his sleeve over his nose and mouth, Bartholomew groped his way inside, aiming for the spot where he could still hear Heyford. The priest was lying on the chancel floor, crooning and chuckling to himself, while the high altar was a bright rectangle of flames. He heard a sound behind him and turned quickly.

  ‘Is he drunk?’

  Eyer the apothecary had followed him in. He was a comparative newcomer to the town, a pink-faced man with a round head. He always wore a clean white apron, and his air of venerable geniality made people more willing to trust his remedies. His clean, pleasantly fragrant shop on the High Street had become a refuge for the town’s physicians, and Bartholomew in particular sought sanctuary there when pressure of work threatened to overwhelm him. Eyer had recently been elected to the Guild of Saints, and Edith said he had already donated large sums to worthy causes.

  Yet despite his generosity, there was something about the apothecary that Bartholomew did not quite trust, and he knew the other medici felt the same. None could put his finger on what made them draw back from the proffered hand of friendship, but the inconsistencies in the stories Eyer told about his past did not help: small contradictions, it was true, but enough to raise eyebrows.

  Together, physician and apothecary pulled Heyford to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him into the street, where they deposited him, still chortling, next to a horse trough. Two of his deacons came to hover anxiously over him. Heyford reeked of wine, and his eyes had the dull glaze of a man who was barely conscious. Bartholomew suspected it would be some time before he was sober enough to answer questions.

  ‘I had not taken him for a drinking man,’ remarked Eyer wonderingly. ‘And certainly not one who would imbibe so much that he would set his own church alight.’

  ‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said one of the deacons indignantly. ‘He is ill, not drunk.’

  ‘We shall take him home,’ said the other. ‘The poor man needs to rest.’

  They hauled him upright and hustled him away, taking a circuitous route so that as few people as possible would witness his condition. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the fire.

  There were many willing hands, but no one had organised them, so the result was a chaotic mêlée, with folk bumping into each other and water slopped needlessly. The Guild of Saints had abandoned its meeting. A few members were toting buckets, but most were too grand to soil their hands, so confined themselves to offering impractical advice. The Deputy Sheriff, who should have taken charge, was more interested in cornering Potmoor. Watching, Bartholomew saw that Dickon was right to say he looked like a monkey – de Stannell had a long, protruding nose, close-set eyes and bushy facial hair.

  ‘Perhaps he is trying to charm another benefaction for our Guild’s continuing good work,’ shrugged Eyer, seeing where Bartholomew was looking and reading his thoughts. ‘Potmoor has been generous since … recently.’

  ‘I would have thought that saving the town is rather more pressing at the moment.’

  Eyer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Spoken like a man with no head for finance! But look – your sister and Mistress Holm have taken charge. De Stannell’s authority is not needed anyway.’

  Briskly competent, Edith and Julitta shepherded people into a line so that water could be poured in
to the church more effectively. Bartholomew and Eyer joined it, the physician glancing around quickly to see who had done likewise.

  Provost Illesy and his Fellows had pitched into the affray, Illesy speaking in a loud, important bray to ensure that everyone knew Winwick Hall was doing its bit. Lawrence worked quietly at his side, his white beard full of cinders, while Nerli toiled with soldierly efficiency. Bon dropped more buckets than he passed, but at least he was trying – unlike Ratclyf, who kept his distance.

  ‘The Cambridge Debate will start soon,’ said Eyer, when Bartholomew remarked on it. ‘Ratclyf is scheduled to speak, and will not want to arrive looking like a drowned rat.’

  ‘That does not seem to worry anyone else.’

  Eyer shoved a bucket at Bartholomew with such urgency that most of its contents sluiced down the physician’s front. ‘Perhaps he is just more fastidious than the rest of the University.’

  Another man who considered himself a cut above hefting pails was Potmoor, his mustachioed face wearing a sly look that made Bartholomew wonder whether he was responsible for the blaze. Nearby, his hulking son Hugo stood with Holm, both watching Julitta. Bartholomew could not tell if the surgeon was proud or resentful of his wife’s organisational skills. With a stab of disappointment, he saw Richard was not helping either – he was with Goodwyn and the other new medical students, laughing in a way that suggested he did not care that the town was in danger.

  ‘You will have trouble with them,’ came a voice at his side. It was Hemmysby. The gentle Michaelhouse theologian was also trying to keep his finery clean for the debate, but that did not stop him from working as hard as anyone. ‘It is a pity Langelee accepted them.’

  ‘Perhaps they will leave once they realise that reading medicine is hard work,’ said Bartholomew hopefully.

  ‘It is with you!’ Hemmysby’s smile took the sting from his words. ‘You drive your lads harder than any other master in the University, although it has its rewards. Five of the seven who graduated last year secured excellent posts in noble households.’

  This was a sore point. Bartholomew had hoped they would dedicate themselves to doing something more useful than calculating horoscopes for the wealthy, and their appointments made him feel as though he had wasted his time. He called over to their replacements, and ordered them to join the line. They obeyed with ill grace, Richard trailing at their heels.