‘Did I tell you that twenty-seven new hostels have been founded in the last two months? Most are for clerks, as that is why so many lads came – hoping to study law at Winwick.’
Bartholomew was also glad to be thinking of something else. ‘You must be pleased. It means the University is expanding.’
‘Yes, but it is happening too fast. Of course, it is Oxford’s fault.’
‘Oxford’s?’ Bartholomew was startled by the claim. ‘Why?’
‘Because if they had kept their ideas on apostolic poverty to themselves, John Winwick would almost certainly have founded his upstart College there. Instead, he foisted it on us.’
‘He did not choose us because we are the better school?’ joked Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I thought you were pleased that he favoured Cambridge over them.’
‘I was,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But the rising antagonism Winwick Hall is causing has changed my mind. Now I wish he had imposed his patronage on another foundation.’
Bartholomew, sensing a rant in the making, hastily changed the subject. ‘Have you found Fulbut yet?’
‘No, and as I said earlier, I suspect we never will. Meadowman is the only one still looking for him, as all my other beadles are needed out on patrol. Incidentally, did I tell you about the rumour that the town plans to attack the University at one of three places – this church, King’s Hall or Winwick?’
‘Why them?’
‘Because they are our most conspicuous holdings. I have a bad feeling that the assault will be on Tuesday, at the beginning of term ceremony – which will be grander than usual, as it marks Winwick’s official entry into our ranks. Its founder plans to be there, which is a nuisance. I could do without high-ranking courtiers to protect.’
‘Perhaps you should cancel it.’
‘That would be tantamount to letting the town dictate what we do, and that is a very slippery slope to start down.’ Michael sighed tiredly. ‘I have lost count of the spats I have quelled of late. There was an especially vicious one today between three new hostels and the bakers’ apprentices.’
‘What was it about?’
‘The burglaries. The culprit – who most people believe to be Potmoor – evades capture with such effortless ease that people are beginning to believe he has help. The students think it is de Stannell, while the town blames the University.’
‘Did you speak to Potmoor about the fire in St Clement’s?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or his connections to Illesy?’
‘Yes, but he refused to comment on either. Did you hear the choir sing my new Jubilate, by the way? It was very rousing.’
‘That is one way of putting it.’
‘It is meant to be loud,’ said Michael, offended. ‘It is music to celebrate, and you do not do that in a whisper. Here is Cynric at last. Good. If he had kept us waiting much longer, my nerve would have failed me.’
‘Your nerve,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What about mine?’
St Mary the Great was dark and eerily silent, its thick walls and handsomely glazed windows blocking any outside noise. The only sound inside was the low murmur of prayers, which came from Heyford, who liked earning extra money and was always the first to volunteer when vigils were required. He was in the Lady Chapel with the three coffins.
‘He is the only person here,’ whispered Cynric. ‘You must lure him away, Brother. Then Doctor Bartholomew can do what he likes to these corpses, invisible to all but the spirits.’
Michael pulled a wineskin from under his cloak. ‘I shall offer him a little claret to keep out the chill. He claims never to touch strong beverages, but that it is a lie, or he would not have been drunk when his church caught fire. However, he will have to come to my office for it, as I do not approve of imbibing in the presence of the dead.’
Bartholomew snatched the flask and took a hearty swig. He rarely felt the need for a drink, but that night was an exception. He gulped so much that Michael was obliged to tug it away, afraid there would be insufficient left to distract the vicar.
Fortunately, Heyford was more than happy to shirk his duties, and Michael was hard-pressed to keep up with him when he surged to his feet and aimed for the Senior Proctor’s elegant office, which was located in the south aisle – a little too close for Bartholomew’s liking, but not so far that Heyford would baulk at the distance from where he was paid to be. Bartholomew waited until Cynric nodded to say the coast was clear, and then stepped towards the caskets. He glanced around anxiously.
‘Do not worry, boy,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I bought a charm to protect us. It contains real holy water, so you are quite safe from evil sprites. However, you will not be safe from Heyford if he comes back before you have finished, so you had better get on with … whatever you mean to do.’
He retreated into the shadows when Bartholomew unlatched the first lid, unwilling to witness what was being done in the name of justice. The coffin contained Elvesmere, waxy-faced and reaching the point where he had outstayed his welcome above ground. The body had been dressed in a shroud with a lot of fiddly laces, and by the time Bartholomew finally reached bare skin, he was so exasperated that making an incision seemed easy by comparison.
When the examination was complete, he re-dressed Elvesmere, and moved to the next box. His scalpel was just descending towards Ratclyf when there was a great thump on the door, which made him jump so violently that the metal blade slipped from his fingers and clattered ringingly on the flagstones. The muted murmur of Michael’s conversation with Heyford faltered.
‘Students,’ the vicar said disapprovingly, when tipsy giggles followed. ‘Relieving themselves in the porch. The scoundrels! I shall tell them what happens to brutes who—’
‘Let my beadles do it,’ said Michael quickly. ‘The troublemakers might be armed, and we do not want you hurt. More wine?’
The argument convinced Heyford, who held out his cup. Bartholomew released the breath he had been holding, and returned to Ratclyf with hands that shook. He finished quickly, then pulled the lid from Knyt’s ornate chest.
He stood for a moment, gazing at the kindly features. The Secretary had been a force for good in the town, and he and Oswald had relieved a lot of suffering through the Guild of Saints. It was a pity things were changing now that de Stannell was in charge. Or were they? Julitta and Edith were still members, and they would not condone funds being squandered on less deserving causes.
A burst of laughter from Michael’s office pulled him from his reverie – it was hardly the time to ponder such matters. He took a deep breath and began his examination. It took no more than a moment to learn what he needed to know, and he was just straightening Knyt’s gown when Cynric came to demand what was taking so long.
‘I have finished now,’ Bartholomew replied shortly, tempted to point out that dissection was an art, not an excuse for butchery. ‘Help me put the lids back on.’
‘You have not done it yet?’ hissed Cynric in alarm. ‘Then hurry! Heyford has finished all the wine and will be out soon.’
At that point Bartholomew discovered that he was less adept at re-attaching clasps than at manipulating dissecting tools, and nervous tension made him more clumsy still. Cynric cursed when he realised they were trying to put Ratclyf’s lid on Elvesmere, and gulped audibly when Heyford’s returning footsteps sounded in the nave. Michael was at the vicar’s heels, gabbling about apostolic poverty in a desperate attempt to distract him a little longer. Then the last clip snapped into place, and there was just enough time to duck behind a pillar. Unfortunately, in his haste to escape, Bartholomew dropped his scalpel a second time. Heyford stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Someone is in here, Brother,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘A burglar, perhaps, hoping to steal all the ecclesiastical silver that your greedy University has accumulated.’
‘It was a bird,’ replied Michael. ‘One is trapped in here at the moment. But as I was saying, this schism about the relation of grace and merit to dominion is one that will see the whole of Christendom in
flames.’
‘I hear it has already caused trouble in Oxford.’ Heyford dropped to his knees in front of the coffins. ‘The King himself has been forced to intervene, and he is said to be furious about it. But we had better discuss this tomorrow, Brother. Now, I must pray.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, surreptitiously kicking the scalpel backwards. To his horror, it rattled on the flagstones, causing Heyford to leap to his feet. ‘Lord! What an audacious bird!’
‘Perhaps we should look for it,’ gulped Heyford. ‘It should be roosting, not flying around making peculiar noises. Do you think the Devil has possessed it?’
‘Of course not,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘Satan would never dare enter St Mary the Great.’
‘Then maybe these sinister sounds are not a bird at all, but three souls crying out from Purgatory. Or rather one from Purgatory and the other two from Hell.’
‘Which two are in Hell?’ asked Michael curiously.
‘The pair from Winwick. I said from the start that the place was evil, and when that thieving Illesy was made Provost, I was sure of it.’
‘Are you sure about what happened in Westminster?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Illesy does not seem dishonest to me.’
‘Of course I am sure! He is a felon, and his criminal tendencies are what encouraged Potmoor to hire him as his legal representative. The pair of them conspired to burn me alive when I spoke out against their wicked ways.’
‘You may be right about Illesy, but that does not mean the rest of Winwick should be tarred with the same brush. There is no evidence to suggest that Elvesmere or Ratclyf were corrupt.’
Heyford pursed his lips. ‘Elvesmere was a bigot who disliked anything not within his narrow remit of virtues, while Ratclyf was the most deceitful rogue I ever met. Doubtless that is why they put him in charge of Winwick’s finances.’
‘I hardly think—’
‘It is common knowledge that if you want a foundation to prosper, you should appoint a villain to mind its coffers. Why do you think Potmoor was invited to join the Guild of Saints?’
‘Perhaps that explains why Michaelhouse is poor,’ said Michael wryly. ‘We have no mendacious felon to manipulate our accounts.’
‘Get Thelnetham to do it,’ advised the vicar. ‘He will see you wealthy in no time at all.’
When Heyford returned to his prayers, Cynric grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and bundled him out of the church, taking care to ensure that he did not drop anything else on the way. When they reached the graveyard, both took deep breaths to calm their jangling nerves.
‘Well?’ asked Michael, making them jump by speaking behind them. He handed the physician the scalpel he had retrieved – the truth would be out for certain if that were found lying around. ‘What did you discover? It had better be something worthwhile, because it was not pleasant spending all that time with an opinionated fool like Heyford.’
‘It was not pleasant being dragged out to perform anatomies in the middle of the night,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been so bad if we could have worked openly, with the blessing of all concerned. But what we did felt shabby and sacrilegious.’
‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is over now, so what did you learn?’
‘That Elvesmere and Knyt have lesions consistent with dormirella, but Ratclyf does not.’
Michael frowned. ‘So Elvesmere and Knyt were murdered?’
‘I can only tell you that the toxin was inside them. I cannot tell you how it got there.’
Michael pursed his lips. ‘Well, Hemmysby, Elvesmere and Knyt are unlikely to have swallowed the same substance by accident on three different days, and the chances of three separate suicides are highly improbable. I think we can safely deduce that they were unlawfully killed.’
‘But Ratclyf was not. At least, not with dormirella. Perhaps he really did die of a weak heart.’
‘So of the six deaths we are investigating, three were poisoned, one was shot, and one died of undetermined causes,’ summarised Michael. ‘That leaves Oswald…’
‘I will not dissect him for anyone,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Not even Edith. You will have to find the killer, and make him give you the names of any other victims.’
‘Yes, but how? I was hoping for more than a mere confirmation of what we suspected already. And because we can never tell another living soul what we did tonight, we cannot even reveal that these men were poisoned. People will ask how we know.’
‘I have an idea,’ said Cynric brightly. Both scholars regarded him warily: his suggestions were not always sensible. From under his cloak, Cynric produced a flask containing more of Goodwyn’s blue creation. ‘Do you recall how this stuff started off clear, but changed colour during the night? Well, you can claim that the same thing happens with the poison.’
‘I do not follow,’ said Michael.
Cynric grimaced impatiently. ‘You can say that dormirella is undetectable at the time of death, but that clues appear on the victim after a period of time. Who will know any different?’
‘Lots of people,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. He began to list them. ‘Langelee, Rougham, Meryfeld, Lawrence—’
‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael disdainfully. ‘Lawrence said he had never heard of dormirella before we mentioned it, so he is not in a position to argue, while the other medici are unlikely to know what the poison can do.’
‘And Master Langelee will not contradict us when we explain what we are doing,’ added Cynric.
‘But what are we doing?’ asked Michael. ‘What kind of clues do you intend to invent, exactly?’
Cynric waved the phial. ‘We shall paint their faces blue.’
‘I doubt we could make that look convincing,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Moreover, one drip in the wrong place will expose the ruse in an instant.’
‘Their lips, then,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Or even one or two judiciously placed spots. Anything that will be obvious to a casual observer.’
‘A casual observer who can see through wood?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘They are in sealed caskets, Cynric. And there is no reason to open them.’
‘Yes, there is,’ countered Michael, visibly warming to the idea. ‘We undid Hemmysby’s last night, because we forgot to include his pectoral cross. We can say we noticed these marks then. Concerned, I can order the other coffins opened, too. Cynric is right: we can say quite openly that these men were poisoned, and it may panic the killer into making a mistake. At which point we shall have him.’
‘But it is a lie,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I am not very good at those.’
‘It is not a lie – it is a trap to catch the beast who has taken at least three lives, stolen the Stanton Hutch and arranged for Hemmysby to be accused of it, and aims to destroy Michaelhouse by publishing William’s tract. Think of that if anyone challenges you.’
‘We should paint Ratclyf’s lips, too,’ said Cynric. ‘He was not poisoned, but only one person knows that – the culprit. Our deception will confuse and unsettle him.’
‘Excellent!’ crowed Michael. ‘It is high time we took control of the situation.’
Bartholomew was far from convinced that the plan was sound, especially when it became obvious that he was the one expected to apply the dye. Michael shoved him back inside the church, while Cynric informed Heyford that he had seen a suspicious shadow lurking. The vicar was more than happy to lock himself in the monk’s office until told it was safe to emerge.
‘Hurry, Matt,’ hissed Michael urgently when the physician took an inordinate amount of time to do what was necessary. ‘Our scheme will not work if we are caught.’
‘It needs to look realistic,’ Bartholomew whispered back irritably. ‘We will be accused of desecration for certain if we leave obvious brush strokes.’
He finished at last, having applied two or three discreet but noticeable stains on the lips of each corpse. They were as convincing as he could make them, and he left the church with re
lief. Cynric went to inform Heyford that it was safe to resume his vigil, but the vicar was unconvinced, and ordered the book-bearer to stay with him for the rest of the night. Cynric tried to demur, but Heyford was adamant.
‘I was almost incinerated once,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to give anyone a second chance.’
The escapade left Bartholomew with a deep sense of disquiet, and he knew he would not sleep for what remained of the night, so he sat in his storeroom, a blanket around his shoulders, working on his lectures. The knowledge that he was still far from ready for the start of term ahead forced him to concentrate, so when the bell rang to wake the College for its morning devotions, he was pleased to announce that he had managed to prepare everything that was needed for the second week of teaching. He ignored the fact that another seven and a half still remained, and congratulated himself on his progress.
He went to the lavatorium, where he washed, shaved and donned clean clothes. The lavatorium was a shed-like structure with water piped from the well and drains to channel it away again, built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself, especially after Langelee had declared hot water a frivolous luxury, so that only cold was available. Shivering, the physician trotted across the yard to where his colleagues were gathering.
‘Where is Clippesby?’ asked Langelee irritably. ‘Look in his room, would you, Suttone?’
‘He will not be there,’ sneered Thelnetham. ‘He will be with that chicken. If he were not totally witless, I would say he was communing with the Devil’s familiar.’
‘Well, he is a Dominican,’ said William, who could believe nothing good of that Order. Then it occurred to him that he had just agreed with Thelnetham, and hastened to put matters right. ‘But it is the Gilbertines who worship Satan, and if anyone communes with the Devil it is you.’
‘As you wrote in your poisonous little tract,’ said Thelnetham coldly. ‘Well, you had better hope it is never made public, because my Order will sue yours, and mine will win.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 24
