‘Nerli worries me most – there is something deeply sinister about him. Also, dormirella is an Italian creation, and he hails from Florence. It would not surprise me to learn that he is a poisoner. Which would mean that Potmoor visiting Knyt’s house on the morning of his death is irrelevant.’
‘Nerli has a motive for dispatching the other victims, too,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He clashed with Elvesmere over the validity of his foreign degrees, while Oswald, Felbrigge and Knyt may have objected to the Guild’s support of his College. Meanwhile, it was to Nerli that Edith delivered the fruitcake for the debate…’
‘Elvesmere,’ said Michael. ‘Let us consider him next. He was stabbed somewhere other than the latrine where he was found, and the wound in his back would not have been instantly fatal. You say he may have been poisoned, too.’
‘It is possible.’ Restlessly, Bartholomew crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers.
‘Everyone at Winwick had the opportunity to kill him,’ the monk went on. ‘He died in the middle of the night, when they claim to have been asleep, and all his colleagues disliked him: he denigrated Nerli’s qualifications, despised Illesy for befriending Potmoor, scorned Lawrence for being a medicus, and even his friend Bon did not escape his bile.’
‘He drew attention to Bon’s illegitimacy,’ recalled Bartholomew.
‘But Bon is blind, which is a serious disadvantage for a killer. How could he be sure that no one was watching while he poisoned victuals, or indulged in a bit of stabbing? And what about his getaway? He stumbled in the parlura, a place he knows, so how could he manage outside? I suppose he could have hired someone to help him, but that would carry its own uncertainties.’
‘Yet despite all this, I am not sure the Winwick men are ruthless enough for murder. Several members of the Guild of Saints are, though. You do not accrue riches and power by being gentle.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So our suspects are the wealthy guildsmen with Potmoor high on the list, the four Winwick men—’
‘Two Winwick men,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Lawrence is not a murderer and Bon has hypochyma. However, there is another guildsman you have not mentioned: Holm, who bought dormirella, and has a workshop in which he experiments.’
‘I wondered how long it would be before you reminded me about him,’ said Michael wryly.
As Bartholomew and Michael left the Brazen George, they met two scholars from Bene’t College. John Samon was a short, ugly canonist with a cheery manner, while Master Heltisle was tall, aloof and unfriendly. Heltisle had never liked Bartholomew, but that day, he regarded the physician with more hostility than usual.
‘We were burgled yesterday,’ he said coldly. ‘By Potmoor.’
‘Possibly by Potmoor,’ corrected Samon, shooting him a cautionary glance. ‘Although I do not believe it, personally. I know he never has an alibi for these crimes, but I do not see a powerful villain like him demeaning himself with petty theft.’
‘He does it to keep his skills honed,’ explained Heltisle shortly. ‘Our porters heard him say so.’ He turned back to Bartholomew. ‘And it is your fault for resurrecting him.’
‘If you believe that medici can raise people from the dead, then you are a fool,’ said Bartholomew, tiredness and his continuing unease over Hemmysby making him uncharacteristically curt. ‘It is impossible, and anyone with a modicum of intelligence should know it. Potmoor was not dead, he was suffering from catalepsia.’
Heltisle took a step away, unused to the physician hitting back. ‘Well, perhaps. However, there is another rumour you should hear, too. We had it from Weasenham.’
‘What has he been saying now?’ groaned Michael wearily. The stationer was an incurable gossip, who shamelessly invented stories when he was low on true ones.
‘That Provost Illesy stole from the King when he was a clerk in Westminster. He was dismissed in disgrace, so he had no choice but to work for Potmoor until he was offered something better. It explains why he is so rich – he kept what he filched from His Majesty.’
Michael rolled his eyes. ‘What utter nonsense! John Winwick would not have appointed a thief to run his College, and he would certainly know if Illesy had been caught with his fingers in the royal coffers. Weasenham is just trying to make trouble, as usual.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Heltisle. ‘Winwick is full of rogues, and I hate them all. Upstarts!’
Samon hastened to explain. ‘We have just been to the reading of Knyt’s will. He always promised to remember Bene’t in it, but everything has gone to the Guild of Saints instead – which means that Winwick Hall is likely to get it all.’
‘Winwick is an abomination,’ spat Heltisle, ‘and if it had not come into being so fast, I would have contacted my friends at Court and put an end to it. As it was, we were essentially presented with a fait accompli.’
‘We were,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is here now, and we must make the best of it.’
Heltisle drew himself up to his full, haughty height. ‘I shall oppose it at every turn, and so will King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Bene’t, Trinity Hall, Clare and Peterhouse. Its greed and selfishness are damaging our University, and we want it gone.’
He stalked away, leaving Michael staring after him unhappily, thinking about Winwick’s intention to usurp precedence at St Mary the Great after the beginning of term ceremony. The other Heads of Houses would feel the same as Heltisle, and there would be trouble for certain.
‘Tynkell let slip something yesterday,’ he told Bartholomew, as they resumed their journey. ‘That my Junior Proctor encouraged John Winwick to wait until I had gone to Peterborough before forging ahead with his new College. In other words, Felbrigge wanted to oversee the arrangements himself, so he could claim all the credit.’
Bartholomew was not surprised. ‘You scoffed at the notion that Felbrigge was a threat, but he was ruthlessly ambitious. Yet his plan has misfired: no one thanks him for Winwick Hall.’
‘He said he had put measures in place to control it. I wish I knew what they were, because the wretched place is beyond my sway. Are people still saying I killed him, by the way?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Here comes de Stannell,’ said Michael, watching the deputy trot towards them on a lively bay. It was too spirited for his meagre equestrian skills – the secret riding lessons at the castle clearly had some way to go – obliging him to cling hard to the edge of his saddle.
‘There were more thefts in the town last night,’ he panted, struggling to control the beast and talk at the same time. ‘Including the Mayor, who lost a silver pot and five spoons.’
‘Bene’t was burgled, too, and Master Heltisle claims Potmoor is responsible.’ Michael took the reins, and the animal immediately quietened; he had a way with horses. ‘It is a serious allegation, and it is incumbent on you to investigate.’
De Stannell looked away. ‘I cannot. Potmoor is a fellow guildsman.’
‘If your post as Secretary interferes with your duties as Deputy Sheriff, you should resign one of them,’ said Michael sharply.
‘Do not tell me what to do,’ bristled de Stannell. ‘Besides, I did challenge him, and he told me he is innocent. He may have been lying, I suppose, but unless you have evidence to prove it, I suggest you let the matter drop. It is reckless to annoy vicious felons.’
‘But you are Deputy Sheriff!’ exclaimed Michael, stunned by the bald admission of cowardice. ‘It is your duty to annoy vicious felons.’
‘Rubbish! Besides, he thinks a scholar is the guilty party. I am inclined to believe he is right.’
‘Unless you can support such claims with facts, you would be wise to keep them to yourself,’ snapped Michael. ‘Or you will learn to your cost that slandering the University is expensive.’
‘Is that so? Well, for your information, the best lawyers are in Winwick, and they would never move against me. Who provided wine when they were struggling to supply refreshments after the debate? I did! They are in my debt.
’
‘Then it is a pity you made them look mean by being niggardly,’ flashed Michael. ‘There was not enough to go around, and you embarrassed them with your miserliness.’
Before de Stannell could take issue, Michael dealt the horse a sharp slap on the flank. It reared and shot off down the High Street with its rider hauling ineffectually on the reins. Even Bartholomew, no equestrian himself, was unimpressed.
‘Heaven help us if we need his help to quell trouble next week.’
Michael and Bartholomew had interviewed Tynkell, Rougham and the Winwick men about the cake that Hemmysby had eaten at the debate, but they had not yet questioned the last two scholars who had formed the little group. They returned to Michaelhouse, where they found William and Thelnetham in the conclave. No one else was there, and the pair were bickering furiously.
‘I can give you some of my duties if you have too much time on your hands,’ said Michael acidly. ‘Or Matt’s. We are both worried about how we will manage next term, yet you two have leisure to lounge in here, sparring with each other.’
‘We were discussing my tract,’ said William, flushing guiltily. ‘Everyone criticised me for copying Linton Hall’s essay and passing it off as mine, so I have rewritten the whole thing in my own words. Although I left the foreword because that was the bit I had written myself anyway – and I certainly needed no help from Linton to tell me what I think of Gilbertines, Dominicans or that shameless pluralist John Winwick.’
‘And needless to say, the ideas in that poisonous rant are now more dangerous and asinine than ever,’ interposed Thelnetham.
Michael glared at William. ‘How did you rewrite it? We burnt your version and the original.’
‘I had two copies of Linton’s work and you only confiscated one.’ William smirked triumphantly. ‘You cannot complain, Brother. It is now an entirely original piece.’
Michael controlled his temper with difficulty. ‘The issue was not the plagiarism, it was the content – views that saw a brother foundation closed and its members excommunicated. Destroy it at once, or I shall instruct the Bishop to eject you from the Church.’
William paled. ‘You would never do such a thing.’
‘To save Michaelhouse from dissolution? I most certainly would.’ Michael felt he had made his point and moved on to another matter. ‘I understand you stood with Hemmysby, Tynkell, the Winwick Fellows and Rougham for the refreshments after the debate. You may have been among the last people to see him alive.’
‘I thought he looked wan,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But so were we all after listening to those ranting voices all day. And I would not have chosen the company of the rogues from Winwick Hall, but William called them over.’
‘To say how much I enjoyed watching Hemmysby make asses of Ratclyf and Bon,’ explained William, bouncing back quickly from Michael’s reprimand, as was his wont. He grinned gleefully. ‘They did not know how to respond!’
‘Vile creatures, the lot of them,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘They belong to that nasty Guild of Saints, for a start. I told Hemmysby to refuse the invitation to join, but he would not listen.’
‘He wanted to do good works,’ said William. ‘And with Stanmore at the helm, it was a benevolent force. Some awful scoundrels took the reins after he died, though. Potmoor, de Stannell, Mistress Mortimer, Mayor Heslarton, the Frevills…’
‘They probably corrupted Hemmysby,’ said Thelnetham. ‘It is their fault he turned dishonest.’
‘He was not dishonest,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He—’
‘You can ignore the evidence, but I shall not.’ Thelnetham turned to Michael. ‘I was vexed when William hailed the Winwick men over, as they distracted me with their carping, and I only managed to snag one piece of Edith’s fruitcake. Everyone else had two.’
‘I got four,’ put in William gloatingly. ‘And they were all delicious.’
‘From the same plate as Hemmysby?’ asked Bartholomew.
Thelnetham nodded. ‘Lawrence had a platter that he was intending to tote around the vestry, but our little group fell on it like vultures, and it was emptied in a trice. Why? Was something wrong with the pastries, and they were what caused Hemmysby to die?’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed William in alarm. ‘Am I in danger then?’
Bartholomew was puzzled. The poison could not have been in Edith’s cake if so many others had eaten it with no ill effects, yet there had been nothing else in Hemmysby’s stomach. At least, nothing that he could identify. Of course, it was the first time that he had ever examined the sludge that remained in a man’s innards after death. Had he missed something, and led the investigation astray with his inexperience?
‘Hemmysby should have given those Winwick upstarts short shrift when Ratclyf demanded an apology,’ said Thelnetham. ‘If they cannot cope with having their theories demolished, there is no place for them in a university.’
‘Is there any news on the hutch, Brother?’ asked William, who did not like having his theories demolished either.
‘There will never be any news,’ predicted Thelnetham. ‘Hemmysby hid it, and it is lost for ever. I am glad we retrieved the deeds and the cup, but I shall never forgive him for making off with my bestiary. I have no idea what I shall say when my Prior General asks for it back.’
‘I know what he will say to you,’ said William spitefully. ‘That you should not have pawned property that does not belong to you in the first place.’
Michael stood to leave before Thelnetham could respond. ‘Burn your new tract, Father,’ he ordered, as he made for the door. ‘No, do not lean back on that bench as if you intend to resume your quarrel with Thelnetham instead. I want it on the fire before I reach the gate.’
‘I will do it,’ offered Thelnetham eagerly. ‘Suttone has it at the moment, but I shall ensure that no one else is corrupted by its heretical raving.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
Determined to stop the rumours about Illesy and the money he was alleged to have stolen from the King before there was trouble, Michael set off to visit Weasenham. Bartholomew went with him, as Goodwyn was a sullen, distracting presence in his room, and working in the conclave would be impossible with Thelnetham gloating over William about the tract. The stationer’s shop was on the High Street, near King’s Hall, but they had not gone far before Bartholomew felt someone tug his sleeve. It was Ylaria Verius.
‘My man has all but severed his thumb,’ she said. Her voice was hoarse, but he was pleased to see that she had shaken off her cough at last. ‘He is busily swallowing wine to dull the pain, but will you sew it back on when he is drunk enough?’
‘I will come now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘These matters should not be left.’
She shook her head. ‘He will still be sober, and you will never hold him down – the poor lamb is sensitive to pain. Come after noon. He should be ready then.’
She had drawn Bartholomew to one side, which put him in such a position that he had an unusual view of All Saints graveyard. He was surprised to see Potmoor there, leaning against a tomb with his thumbs hooked into his tunic. He appeared to be waiting for someone. Intrigued, Bartholomew ducked into the church porch to watch. Michael followed.
Within moments, Illesy sauntered along the High Street. He stopped by the lychgate and knelt, pretending to fiddle with his shoe while he looked around. Apparently confident that no one was watching, he made a curious sideways scuttle into the churchyard, where he hid behind a tree. After a few moments, he eased out and tiptoed towards Potmoor, whose eyebrows were raised in amusement. Michael gave Bartholomew a shove.
‘We cannot hear what they say from here. Go and eavesdrop from behind that monument.’
‘You do it,’ objected Bartholomew. He would almost certainly be caught, which would be embarrassing – and potentially dangerous if Potmoor took umbrage.
‘I cannot fit behind a tomb with my heavy bones. But those are two of our main suspects for killing Hemmysby, and the
y are obviously going to discuss something important, or Illesy would not be taking such elaborate precautions. It is your moral duty to listen.’
With a sigh, Bartholomew did as he was told, feeling a fool as he eased through the long grass on all fours. He sincerely hoped no one could see him from the road or there would be rumours galore – crawling through graveyards was hardly normal behaviour for a physician, even one with his dubious reputation. Eventually, he came close enough to hear.
‘I do not agree,’ Potmoor was growling. ‘It should have been done by a professional. They are more careful about the spillage of blood.’
‘Professionals are expensive,’ snapped Illesy. ‘We could not afford it.’
‘Then perhaps you should have hired one, just to maintain the illusion,’ countered Potmoor. ‘I have my reputation to consider, you know. Nerli is— What was that?’
Bartholomew had knelt on a twig, and it had cracked very softly. It had barely been audible to him, and he was amazed that Potmoor should have heard it. He tensed, ready to run, at the same time wondering whether having unusually acute hearing was a prerequisite for a successful thief.
‘What?’ asked Illesy, cocking his head. ‘Do you mean that peculiar wailing? It is just the Michaelhouse Choir warming up for another rehearsal.’
‘No, not that – I can tell the difference between good music and suspicious snapping sounds.’
Bartholomew peered around the tomb and studied the felon’s face, searching for signs that he was jesting, but saw none. Had Potmoor’s brush with catalepsia damaged his wits? The racket evidently reminded Illesy of what was to happen in four days’ time.
‘I am looking forward to leading the procession out of St Mary the Great on Tuesday, and the following feast will be exceptionally fine, thanks to your generosity. Our founder has promised to attend, and I am sure he will be impressed. He—’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 21
