Bartholomew examined the patient again, but Ratclyf was sinking fast and there was nothing he or anyone else could do. ‘What has he eaten or drunk today?’
‘A little pottage for breakfast,’ replied Lawrence. He pointed. ‘The bowl is on the table.’
Bartholomew examined it, to find it had been wiped clean. He sniffed it carefully and detected the faint odour of garlic. Dormirella released a garlicky aroma when heated.
‘Did Ratclyf like his breakfast pottage highly flavoured?’ he asked.
‘The cook made a mistake with his flavourings today,’ explained Nerli. ‘We all ate the stuff, but I ordered the rest tipped away and the pot scoured out. You English have no idea how to cook with potent herbs.’
‘It is remarks like that that made Elvesmere dislike you,’ said Bon sharply. ‘He was patriotic, and you offended him by insulting his country.’ He turned his sour visage on the elderly physician. ‘And you have not been entirely honest, Lawrence, because you failed to tell Bartholomew about the tonic you made. Surely you had not forgotten it?’
‘I had, actually.’ Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Mint and camomile. I prepared it myself, and he drank it all. Here is the empty cup.’
Bartholomew inspected that, too, but there was nothing to see or smell. He returned to Ratclyf, where he felt the life-beat growing steadily fainter under his fingers.
‘Try your sal ammoniac,’ whispered Lawrence. ‘Mine did not work.’
There was nothing to lose, so Bartholomew pulled out the little phial, half wishing he had not thrown away the more powerful concoction he had used on Potmoor. It made no difference. Ratclyf was breathing too shallowly to inhale, and it was not long before he died.
There was a shocked silence when Bartholomew informed Winwick Hall that a second of their number was dead. Illesy sank on to a chair and put his head in his hands, Lawrence started to cry, and Bon comforted him by patting his shoulder, although he was so white that he looked as though he might faint himself. Nerli leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his face still and brooding. The only sounds were Lawrence’s sobs, and Uyten shouting in the yard.
Then Michael arrived and took charge, briskly ushering the Fellows out of the bedchamber to go to the hall and wait in the parlura. He gestured that Bartholomew was to examine Ratclyf. The physician obliged, but, as he expected, found no suspicious marks or injuries.
‘But was he poisoned?’ whispered Michael. Although he had closed the door, both were acutely aware of the possibility of eavesdroppers.
‘I cannot tell. His symptoms were certainly consistent with a dose of dormirella, but they could equally well have been caused by a host of naturally occurring ailments. However, if he was poisoned, then it was not at the same time as Hemmysby, because their deaths are too far apart.’
‘Then let us go and talk to Ratclyf’s grieving colleagues, and see what they can tell us.’
Even though it was dark, there were workmen in the parlura, plastering over cracks in the walls. They put down their tools and left when Illesy said something in a low but authoritative voice. The three surviving Fellows were there, along with Uyten, who was guiding Bon through the treacherous muddle of equipment left by the labourers.
‘I shall summarise what happened.’ Illesy gestured for Bartholomew and Michael to sit on a bench, but he remained standing, giving himself the advantage of height. He was at his most oily, and had clearly used the intervening time to decide what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to be told. ‘To save unnecessary questions.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘Proceed.’
‘Ratclyf was distressed by the way Hemmysby belittled him at the debate, and drank heavily to expunge it from his mind. Nerli put him to bed but, not surprisingly, he woke this morning with a headache. He swallowed some pottage and Lawrence’s tonic, and went back to sleep. He was dozing when I went to enquire after his health mid-morning—’
‘I thought you visited him to discuss hiring new Fellows,’ interrupted Michael.
‘I intended to do both. But he was resting, so I left him in peace. Bon saw me come and go.’
‘I did not see anything,’ countered Bon pedantically. ‘I heard you.’
‘Just so,’ said Illesy with a pained smile. He turned back to Michael. ‘Shortly after you and Bartholomew left, Lawrence went to see whether there was any improvement, and found Ratclyf unwell. He tells me that all the symptoms point to a failure of Ratclyf’s heart, which was weak.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged to say it was possible. As he had not been Ratclyf’s physician, he did not know the man’s medical history, and his brief time trying to help had not been enough for a reliable diagnosis. Michael returned to the fray.
‘It is odd that you should lose a second Fellow so soon after the first.’
Illesy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you do not suspect foul play with poor Ratclyf.’
‘He means to accuse us of it,’ said Bon sullenly. ‘He is jealous that all the best students are coming here, and aims to wound us by soiling our reputation.’
‘Stop!’ cried Lawrence. ‘There is no need for nasty words. Brother Michael knows the truth: Elvesmere might have been murdered, but Ratclyf died of natural causes.’
‘Where is the wine that Ratclyf drank last night?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.
‘Inside him,’ replied Bon promptly. ‘He swallowed every last drop and did not offer to share.’
Bartholomew regarded him sharply. Was there a hint of gloating in the blind scholar’s voice because he knew that Ratclyf had consumed the evidence, so the crime would never be proved?
‘How was his health before this?’ asked Michael.
‘Poor,’ replied Illesy, so quickly that it smacked of invention. ‘He was often unwell, which is the lot of those with weak hearts. I speak from experience: my father was the same.’
‘It is a pity you did not use your witchy skills to save him, Bartholomew,’ said Nerli. ‘He was a much more deserving candidate than Potmoor. I thought being guildsmen would spare us from being burgled by the villain, but we also became victims today.’
‘We were raided,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘But not by Potmoor. The crime occurred this morning, when we were all in the hall telling the students…’
‘Telling the students what?’ demanded Michael when the Provost trailed off sheepishly.
‘To be aware of our enemies,’ supplied Bon spitefully. ‘Namely King’s Hall, Gonville, Michaelhouse and all the other Colleges who mean us harm.’
‘You mean you were delivering speeches to encourage rivalry,’ surmised Michael. ‘You are right: we do dislike you, but it is your own fault. You gloat over your superior numbers and your fine hall, and you are arrogant and condescending. You could have won our affection, but instead you have nurtured an atmosphere of bitterness and confrontation.’
‘We do not want your affection,’ Bon flared up. ‘We want you to acknowledge our rightful place as premier College. We—’ He stopped abruptly when temper caused him to take several angry steps forward and he stumbled over a trowel. Uyten surged to catch him before he fell.
‘What was stolen while you ranted in the hall?’ asked Michael, treating Bon to a look of such contempt that it would have silenced anyone able to see it.
‘We shall show you our mettle next Tuesday,’ Bon snarled, pulling angrily away from his student guide. ‘When we are inaugurated into the University. We may be ninth in the procession entering St Mary the Great, but we will certainly be first coming out.’
Michael blinked. ‘Impossible! Peterhouse always leads, because it is the oldest, followed by King’s Hall and Michaelhouse. You will never take precedence over us.’
‘Oh, yes, we will,’ declared Bon heatedly. ‘And our founder will be here to see it. We received a letter from him this morning, saying that he will be here for the ceremony. Do not forget who he is – Keeper of the Privy Seal and one of the most
powerful men in the country.’
‘It makes no difference,’ said Michael tightly. ‘You will still be ninth in the procession. It is not for you, him or anyone else to change what has always been.’
‘You will see,’ sneered Bon. ‘We have a plan to—’
‘We lost nothing of value when we were invaded by the burglar,’ interrupted Illesy quickly. ‘I heard a suspicious sound and hurried to investigate, but the villain saw me coming and fled, snagging a dish as he went. A cracked dish, so at least he will not profit from his crime.’
‘What plan?’ demanded Michael, ignoring Illesy and addressing Bon.
Nerli clapped a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, a gesture that warned him to say no more. ‘We were just teasing, Brother. You need not fear a rumpus on Tuesday.’
‘Good,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Because the Senior Proctor can make life very difficult for foundations that do not conform to the University’s statutes and edicts. I should not like to think that Winwick Hall caused trouble for itself on its first day as a member.’
‘The burglar,’ gushed Lawrence in a transparent attempt to change the subject before Bon lost his temper again. He smiled, all amiable good humour. ‘We were lucky, because he might have stolen Ratclyf’s purse instead of a dish that no one will miss. They were on the table next to each other – poor Ratclyf was too drunk to take it with him last night – but the thief missed it.’
He held up a simple leather bag that looked too coarse to have belonged to the urbane bursar. Michael upended it on the table. There was a cloth for nose-wiping, two pennies, a glass for magnifying writing, and a small phial. Bartholomew picked up the bottle and removed its stopper.
‘Ratclyf had a sore throat after speaking so long at the debate,’ explained Nerli. ‘He took some syrup of liquorice root to soothe it.’
Bartholomew blinked. ‘But liquorice root should be avoided by patients with weak hearts.’
‘Yes, it should,’ agreed Lawrence, frowning in consternation. ‘I wonder why he chose that remedy when there are others that would have suited him better.’
Bon stumbled towards the door and opened it, indicating with a curt sweep of his hand that it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Thank you for coming. It was kind of you to try to help Ratclyf, Bartholomew. But now you must excuse us, as we have much to do.’
CHAPTER 9
There was another storm that night, a gale that all but tore the window shutters from their fastenings, and that threatened to rip tiles from roofs. Bartholomew woke frequently, plagued by nightmares about Hemmysby’s dissection. He kept thinking of Marjory Starre’s claim, too – that strong winds marked the death of a good person. Did this one blow for Hemmysby, a generous and compassionate member of the Guild of Saints?
He drowsed again, only to start awake moments later from a dream in which he was to give a lecture, which he had not prepared, on apostolic poverty to a huge audience of clerics, all of whom were livid after reading William’s inflammatory tract. Hemmysby was among them, hands to the incisions in his neck and middle, and a reproachful expression on his face.
Bartholomew half expected to be struck down when he attended Mass the following morning, and was again acutely aware of Hemmysby’s corpse in the chapel. Guilt and remorse deprived him of his appetite at breakfast, and he refused the watery gruel that was on offer.
‘We shall go to the Brazen George for something to eat,’ determined Michael, when Langelee had intoned a final grace and the scholars were free to leave. ‘You will need your strength if we are to solve these mysteries in the next four days. And solve them we must, because I cannot be distracted by murder while Winwick Hall stages some disagreeable coup in St Mary the Great during the beginning of term ceremony.’
Although taverns and inns were forbidden to scholars, Michael saw no reason why the rule should apply to the Senior Proctor, and was such a regular visitor to the Brazen George that the landlord had set aside a room for his exclusive use. It was a pleasant chamber overlooking a pretty courtyard that boasted a well and a herb garden. Rubbing his hands in gluttonous anticipation, the monk began ordering enough food to victual an army.
‘I am hungry,’ he said defensively, although Bartholomew had passed no comment. ‘And we must do some serious thinking, which I always manage better on a full stomach. Besides, it will set me up for later.’
‘Why?’ What is happening then?’
‘Another choir practice. A lot of matriculands have joined, because they have no money and I provide free bread and ale. I suppose I should send them packing, but I do not have the heart to refuse hungry men. However, it does mean that I have three times as many singers as usual.’
‘Three? God Almighty! They will be audible in Scotland!’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ admonished Michael sharply.
‘Sorry. If these matriculands are so impecunious, how will they pay their tuition fees?’
‘They all hoped to be taken at Winwick, which offers free schooling to a small number of paupers. Of course, most have been rejected. Some have managed to enrol in hostels – six were founded yesterday alone – while others roam aimlessly, hoping Winwick will change its mind.’
‘How will you buy bread and ale for so many?’
Michael grinned. ‘With the handsome fee that de Stannell paid for the documents he needs to calculate certain town taxes.’
‘The ones you always give Dick Tulyet for free?’
‘The very same.’
He was interrupted by the landlord, who brought platter after platter of meat and bread – no vegetables, of course, as Michael considered them a waste of valuable stomach space. He tied a napkin around his neck, flexed his fingers, and pitched in.
‘We now have six deaths to explore,’ began Bartholomew, watching him absently. ‘Oswald, Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Knyt, Hemmysby and Ratclyf. Shall we start with Oswald?’
‘Proceed,’ said Michael, waving a hambone.
‘I think he was poisoned. He was called to a secret meeting, and everyone says he was distracted and unhappy afterwards. Edith thinks Potmoor killed him, and it seems they did do business together. However, I learned yesterday that all Winwick’s Fellows were here in Cambridge when he died.’
The bone was waved again; it had notably less meat. ‘Why would they want him dead?’
‘He founded the Guild of Saints to help the poor, but Winwick has been demanding ever bigger donations. I cannot see him approving – it was not what he intended.’
‘Fair enough. The next death was Felbrigge, shot before the ceremony giving Winwick its charter. Moments earlier, he had been telling me how he had instigated measures to control the place. Fulbut was the archer, but he almost certainly acted on someone else’s orders. We know Potmoor hires him, but Fulbut is a mercenary, and they will work for anyone. He is still missing, and I have a feeling he has been killed to prevent him from talking.’
‘Oswald and Felbrigge – and Knyt – were leading members of the Guild of Saints. De Stannell is in charge now, a man who is far more malleable than they would have been.’
‘Hemmysby felt strongly about looking after the poor, too,’ said Michael, wiping grease from his chin. ‘Now he was definitely poisoned, probably with cake eaten after the debate, although we do not know how. He died trying to reach our church. And if that is not bad enough, someone wants him accused of stealing the Stanton Hutch.’
‘And the culprit knows Michaelhouse well enough to make off with the chest himself, then come back and leave the cup and deeds on display in Hemmysby’s room.’
‘I suspect Potmoor of killing Knyt,’ said Michael. The hambone was stripped bare, so he turned his attention to the beef. ‘He was in Knyt’s house the day Knyt died, and he is enamoured of Olivia. But if Knyt was poisoned and Potmoor did it, then it means that Potmoor killed the others, too – I doubt we have two poisoners at large.’
Bartholomew agreed. ‘I cannot prove Ratclyf was fed dormirella, but he certainly suffered s
ymptoms consistent with it. I seriously doubt he died of a weak heart – it is too convenient. Moreover, he had liquorice root in his purse, something people with unsteady hearts should avoid.’
Michael stopped eating and regarded him sombrely. ‘I hate to say it, Matt, but I fear you might have to make more of those judicious incisions. On Ratclyf, Elvesmere and—’
‘No! Winwick would find out for certain.’
‘But we need to know.’ Michael’s face was pale, and the food sat ignored on the platter in front of him, telling the physician that he was not the only one who uncomfortable with what was being suggested. ‘And I thought you were keen to use this new tool against wicked killers, learning more about the human body in the process.’
‘I am. Or rather, I was.’ Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. It was not easy to discuss, even with Michael. ‘It felt very wrong, Brother. Perhaps because we did it in a church.’
‘Next time, it will be in St Mary the Great.’ Michael raised an oily hand when Bartholomew started to object again. ‘We have no choice, Matt. We must have the truth, and I cannot think of another way to find it. Besides, surely the second time will less distressing than the first?’
‘It will not,’ said Bartholomew with finality. ‘And I am not doing it.’
Michael regarded him balefully, then continued with their analysis, although his appetite had gone and he ate no more. ‘But Potmoor is not our only suspect. Winwick is not a College at ease with itself – none of its Fellows like each other, with the exception of the cloying Lawrence, who simpers over everyone.’
Bartholomew ignored the last remark. ‘All were alone with the ailing Ratclyf at some point, although none would have admitted it if not pushed by the others. Nerli put him to bed, Illesy visited mid-morning, and Bon must have been in the vicinity or he would not have heard Illesy.’
‘And Lawrence took him a tonic,’ added Michael pointedly.
Bartholomew ignored him a second time. ‘They all behaved suspiciously: Illesy is eager for us to believe that Ratclyf had a weak heart; Bon wanted us to know that Ratclyf did not share the wine that made him drunk; Nerli ordered the garlicky pottage thrown away; and the cup used for the tonic looked to have been rinsed. It means we cannot test anything that Ratclyf swallowed.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 20
