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

by Susanna Gregory

  Eyer nodded. ‘Urine and your medical supplies, although you have not come to me to replenish your stocks. Have you taken your custom elsewhere?’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘Of course not.’

  Eyer tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your personal finances are none of my concern, but you cannot earn much from your paupers. If you ever find yourself short of the necessaries, I hope you will let me know. I am more than happy to defer payment. I would not extend this sort of credit to the other physicians, but I trust you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he wondered if Eyer would have made the offer if he had known that any bills incurred were unlikely to be paid before Christmas. Before he could say more, Cynric arrived with a summons from a patient who lived in the north of the city.

  ‘Do not forget,’ said Eyer, as the physician turned to leave. ‘I will not see the poor suffer for want of remedies, and you are always welcome in my shop – if not to dine, then for decent conversation and a chance to relax.’

  ‘You should accept that invitation, boy,’ advised Cynric. ‘I would never think of looking for you there, and it would do you no harm to escape from patients, students and Brother Michael on occasion. Especially if he wants you to chop up any more dead bodies.’

  As Bartholomew walked past St Clement’s Church on his way home, he heard Heyford delivering one of his famously feisty sermons. He could see from the road that the church was packed, and, curious to know why the vicar attracted such consistently large crowds, he stepped into the porch to listen. It did not take him long to understand the appeal: the congregation comprised the kind of townsfolk who were delighted to hear that the University had been founded by Satan. They also enjoyed the news that Winwick Hall would soon suffer the wrath of God because it was full of lawyers. It was not only scholars who suffered Heyford’s spitting vitriol.

  ‘Potmoor tried to destroy this beautiful church with me inside it,’ he bellowed. ‘Well, he will burn in Hell for his wickedness.’

  ‘You spout nonsense, priest!’ came an equally loud voice, almost in Bartholomew’s ear. The physician shot away in alarm when he saw it came from Potmoor – he did not want to be standing next to him while he heckled a vicar. The felon strode through the porch to the nave, where others also hastened to give him a wide berth. ‘I died and went to Heaven, but God saw fit to send me back to Earth. He loves me, and it is you who will burn.’

  ‘Ever since he died, Master Potmoor has been working on the town’s behalf,’ added another voice. It was Deputy de Stannell. Illesy was also in the retinue that clustered around Potmoor’s heels, but the Winwick Provost took care to stand in the midst of Potmoor’s henchmen, either in the hope that he would not be noticed, or because he thought it would be safer in the event of trouble. ‘He has donated a fortune to the Guild of Saints, and God applauds his charity.’

  ‘What charity?’ demanded Heyford. ‘The Guild has been withdrawing alms for weeks now. And why? So the money can go to Winwick Hall! And the reason for this heinous decision? Because the guildsmen want Winwick’s Fellows to say masses for their souls when they are dead. It is not generosity that drives them, but self-interest.’

  There was a growl of disapproval from the congregation, many of whom had received financial help in the past, and were resentful that more might not be forthcoming in the future.

  ‘And you are a burglar, too,’ added Heyford. ‘We know who has been stealing from us.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’ said Potmoor, speaking over the murmur of agreement that rustled along the nave. ‘Then why does de Stannell not arrest me?’

  ‘Because he is your creature,’ spat Heyford. ‘He does what you tell him.’

  ‘And I do what God tells me,’ declared Potmoor. He fingered the sword at his side, and two or three of his henchmen drew daggers. The muttering stopped and the church fell silent. ‘He blessed me with a glimpse of His sacred face. Can you claim as much?’

  ‘You had no holy vision,’ sneered Heyford. ‘It was a side effect of the sal ammoniac. You are a fraud, and the College your Guild supports is an abomination. It should be burned to the ground with all its lawyers inside, just as you attempted to do to me.’

  ‘You try my patience, Heyford,’ said Potmoor softly. ‘So does anyone who backs you in your vicious claims. Be warned. I shall not turn the other cheek if you continue to preach against me.’

  His voice was low, almost caressing, but it carried unmistakable menace. His small, reptilian eyes swept around the building, causing murmurs of consternation as they rested on specific people. By the time he stalked out, the whole congregation had been thoroughly cowed. Heyford began to rant again, but his voice had lost its conviction and his audience soon lost interest.

  Bartholomew had not enjoyed witnessing Potmoor’s display of power, and he was glad to leave St Clement’s for the familiar comforts of home. However, he had not gone far along Bridge Street before he heard someone call his name. Fighting down the urge to keep walking when he recognised Potmoor’s voice, he turned slowly and saw the felon hurrying towards him, the henchmen, Illesy and de Stannell at his heels.

  ‘Heyford just made a very unpleasant assertion,’ said Potmoor. His face was white, and his small eyes burned with fury. ‘You gave me nothing to induce hallucinations, did you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But images of unusual clarity are not unknown when—’

  ‘A simple “no” will suffice. Elaboration will vex me, and I have suffered enough nonsense for one day. No wonder my headaches persist! Fools like Heyford aggravate me at every turn.’

  ‘They do not know what it means to be touched by God,’ said de Stannell sycophantically.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Potmoor, but the ice in his voice stopped the deputy from adding more. He turned back to the physician. ‘I am glad we met, Bartholomew, because I want you to do something for me. Your Benedictine friend has been asking questions about Illesy’s past. Specifically, an incident in Westminster.’

  ‘Poor Heyford,’ sighed Illesy. ‘He is so determined not to be blamed for setting his own church alight that he has resorted to telling some very wild lies about Potmoor and me. He is a man to be pitied, not taken seriously.’

  Bartholomew watched him fiddle with the rings that covered his fingers, a restless, nervous gesture that made the physician ask himself if it was Illesy who was lying.

  ‘But people do take him seriously,’ said Potmoor softly. ‘And I dislike him slandering the Provost of the College that my Guild has chosen to fund. If he were not a priest, I would kill him.’

  ‘Now, now.’ Illesy laughed, to make light of the remark. ‘No talk of murder in front of the Deputy Sheriff, if you please.’

  ‘I thought I was talking in front of the Secretary of the Guild of Saints,’ said Potmoor coldly, and Bartholomew glimpsed again the aura of dark power that hung around the man.

  ‘Of course you are,’ gushed de Stannell. ‘And I—’

  ‘Tell Michael to stop probing this Westminster business,’ said Potmoor, his eyes boring into Bartholomew’s. ‘He will find nothing amiss, and his time would be better spent investigating these burglaries. He claims I have no alibi for them, but I do – I was at prayer.’

  ‘But there have been dozens of thefts,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Are you saying that you were at your devotions when every single one of them was committed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Potmoor firmly. ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you must spend a lot of time on your knees,’ remarked Bartholomew, wondering whether the felon seriously expected him to believe such a ludicrous claim.

  ‘Hours,’ agreed Potmoor. He whipped around, startling de Stannell so badly that the deputy stumbled as he jerked away. ‘Tell Lawrence to tend me in the Brazen George as soon as possible. I need more of his medicine to soothe my pounding head.’

  CHAPTER 11

  It was almost time for Hemmysby’s burial, so Bartholomew hurried to Michaelhouse to don his best cloak and tabard.
When the physician was ready, Langelee led his scholars up the lane. There was an unwritten but universally accepted law that funeral processions had right of way, but resentment of the University was currently so high that carts and riders refused to stop, and the scholars were obliged to brave a treacherous gauntlet of vehicles.

  They straggled into the churchyard, where Langelee began grappling with the lock. A combination of exasperation, anger and grief caused him to lose patience, and he solved the problem once and for all by stepping back and aiming a powerful kick at the offending mechanism. It flew into pieces and the door swung open.

  ‘It is its fault that Hemmysby died out here,’ he said sullenly to his astonished colleagues. ‘He would have reached the altar if it had not seen fit to be awkward.’

  ‘Yes, but how shall we secure the church when we have finished?’ asked Thelnetham.

  Langelee did not reply, and only indicated that his scholars should follow him inside. William was just drawing breath to begin the rite when there was a flurry of activity at the back of the church and people began to file in. They included members of the Guild of Saints, scholars from other Colleges and a smattering of townsmen. The Winwick men were neat and dignified in their new livery and Bartholomew felt shabby by comparison, even in his smartest clothes.

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Langelee. ‘This was meant to be a private affair, but now we shall have to provide wine and cakes for this horde, or we shall be seen as ungracious. Does anyone have any money? The honour of Michaelhouse is at stake here, so do not be miserly, for God’s sake.’

  There was some discreet rummaging, followed by clinks as coins were handed over. They were pitifully few, and Cynric eyed them doubtfully when Langelee listed all that was needed.

  ‘And tell Agatha to make sure we are respectable,’ the Master ordered, before the book-bearer sped away. ‘No laundry hanging in the yard, and all our books must be displayed so that people think we have more of them than we do.’

  ‘Winwick has no right to foist itself on us today,’ hissed Thelnetham. ‘It is not part of the University yet. Not officially.’

  ‘No, but it will have to return the favour when we attend the funerals of Elvesmere and Ratclyf,’ said Langelee with grim satisfaction. ‘We shall be fed twice for its once.’

  ‘I would not mind a spell inside its lovely hall,’ said Suttone plaintively. ‘I have not been warm in days, and I dread the thought of winter with no money for more fuel.’

  ‘Winwick’s hall is not lovely,’ said Thelnetham in disdain. ‘It was built too fast, and its mortar was not given time to dry. It sways in the wind, and I should feel sick if I had to teach there.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why its Fellows are here,’ said William gleefully. ‘To stand in a building that does not swing about or reek of wet plaster.’

  ‘They came to pay their respects,’ said Clippesby quietly. He was pale, heavy-eyed, and his hair was standing up in all directions. Unusually, he had no animals with him, which made him seem oddly incomplete. ‘Do not denigrate them for that.’

  Thus chastised, William began the ceremony – a brief service inside, followed by burial in the churchyard. There would be a more formal requiem later, when it could be properly organised.

  ‘Are you unwell, John?’ whispered Bartholomew, as they prepared to carry the coffin out.

  ‘No,’ replied Clippesby. ‘But I am worried about our sparrows. No one has seen them since Wednesday, and Ethel reminded me today that Hemmysby threw them some crumbs before he went to the debate. Crumbs left from a raisin tart.’

  Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘You think he did something to these crumbs?’

  ‘Of course not. But he died the same day, and Ethel wonders if the poison was in the tart, not the cake from the debate. It would explain why we no longer have any sparrows.’

  ‘Have you been in his room to see whether any of this tart is left?’

  ‘Ethel thought it might be dangerous, so I decided to let you do it. She is terribly unsettled, Matt. She can sense something nasty in the offing, and so can I.’

  ‘What kind of “something nasty”?’

  ‘Bloodshed, as the University goes to war with the town and with itself.’

  There was a respectful silence after Hemmysby had been lowered into the ground. Determined to give Agatha and Cynric as long as possible to prepare, Langelee let it stretch on for an inordinate amount of time. Eventually, he raised his head, and was just drawing breath to announce that refreshments would be available in Michaelhouse when Illesy pre-empted him.

  ‘We understand the distress involved in losing a Fellow,’ he declared in a ringing voice. ‘So to spare Michaelhouse the ordeal of entertaining, we have prepared a small collation at Winwick. Everyone here is invited.’

  ‘What presumption!’ spluttered Thelnetham, although his indignation went unheard in the general murmur of thanks from the other mourners. ‘It is our privilege to offer hospitality, not his.’

  ‘Christ!’ breathed Langelee, aghast. ‘Now we shall have to do the same for them – for Elvesmere and for Ratclyf. The cunning dogs have outmanoeuvred us!’

  Resentment in every step, he went to lead the procession to Winwick’s repast, bristling with impotent pique when Illesy took the liberty of walking by his side. Bartholomew did not follow. He took a spade and began to fill in Hemmysby’s grave, feeling it was the least he could do to atone for his act of desecration. He had not been shovelling long when someone came to help. He assumed it was Clippesby and did not look up, so it was several moments before he realised it was Lawrence. The elderly physician said nothing, and they worked in silence until the task was done.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, leaning the spade against a wall. His best habit was streaked with dirt, and his boots were muddy. Somehow, Lawrence had contrived to remain considerably cleaner, although there was a smattering of soil in his white beard.

  ‘He will be in my prayers tonight,’ said Lawrence. ‘I knew him from Guild meetings, and thought him a fine priest. He even won Potmoor’s approbation, and he is not an easy man to please.’

  ‘Potmoor,’ said Bartholomew, seizing the opportunity to ask a guildsman about the person Edith thought had murdered her husband. ‘My brother-in-law did not like him very much…’

  ‘Then his antipathy was misplaced,’ said Lawrence firmly. ‘I became Potmoor’s physician after his brush with death, as you know, and I have seen nothing but goodness in him. He is not the evil villain everyone imagines, and is as sweet and munificent as any guildsman.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance, thinking it was either a sad indictment of the other members, or Lawrence was unusually unperceptive. ‘Did Oswald and Potmoor quarrel much in Guild meetings?’

  ‘Not that I saw. Indeed, I was under the impression that they did a great deal of business together, so I am surprised to hear that Stanmore did not like him.’

  ‘You mean Oswald sold him cloth?’

  ‘I do not know the nature of their association, Matthew. You will have to ask Potmoor.’

  Bartholomew doubted he would be very forthcoming. Then he remembered what Julitta had told him about Lawrence creeping through the town in the dark with Nerli, and supposed he should ask about that, too.

  ‘I am often called out in the middle of the night these days,’ he began, intending to steer the discussion to his questions as diplomatically as possible. ‘And—’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot accept more of your paupers,’ interrupted Lawrence apologetically. ‘Not with teaching about to start and Potmoor summoning me every day with headaches.’

  ‘Did he summon you at midnight the other evening?’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a placatory shrug when Lawrence regarded him sharply. ‘You were seen out with Nerli. He had a sword.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I rarely leave home after dark – I am too old. And while I did tend Potmoor on Friday, it was at dawn, not midnight. Nerli walked part of the way with me, but he was certainly not carrying
a weapon. I suppose you spotted me from Julitta Holm’s boudoir. It is a bad idea to cuckold the town’s only surgeon, Matthew. You may need his help one day, and it would be awkward, to say the least.’

  ‘We meet to practise her reading,’ explained Bartholomew.

  ‘Before dawn?’ asked Lawrence. He continued before Bartholomew could correct the misunderstanding. ‘Yet I understand the attraction. I might be tempted myself if I were twenty years younger. She is a splendid woman – beautiful and a sound financial head on her shoulders. Did you hear about the decision to suspend the beggars’ bread and the widows’ allowance? That was hers.’

  ‘I did hear, but I cannot believe she would do such a thing.’ Bartholomew was bemused by the skill with which Lawrence had taken control of the conversation.

  ‘It sounds heartless, but it is eminently sensible. The money will be lent to Winwick Hall, and will be repaid with interest next year – interest that can then be used to fund other worthy causes. Before she came along, the Guild’s finances were in a terrible state, with lots of money one week and none the next. Her plan will ensure a regular and predictable flow of cash.’

  ‘I see. But what happens to the beggars and widows in the interim?’

  ‘I imagine she will look after them herself. She is a generous soul, which is why she was invited to join the Guild. The same is true of all our members. Well, not your nephew, I am afraid to say. He was asked out of respect for his father, and because he inherited a vast fortune.’

  ‘I was told that Illesy arranged for him to be elected. And that Illesy will also recommend him for a Fellowship in Winwick Hall.’

  ‘Yes. It is astonishing how wealth opens doors.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew sourly. ‘But to return to Friday—’

  ‘Poor Potmoor is not responding to my tincture of sage.’ Lawrence cut across him. ‘I must try something stronger. Valerian, perhaps. However, he is becoming exasperated with my inability to cure him, and may summon you. If he does, stay away from the subject of anatomy.’