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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Anatomy?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the advice. ‘I cannot imagine that will crop up.’

  ‘It might – ever since the sal ammoniac incident, he has become morbidly fascinated by what happens to a body after death. Personally, I do not consider it healthy. Not in a layman, at least. I have nothing against dissections being conducted by medici, as I have told you in the past, although I should not care to do it myself. Not even to an ear.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘An ear?’

  ‘I find them fascinating. Indeed, I have studied one specific condition, which is known in the north as Pig Ear. Shall I enlighten you?’

  He began to hold forth, and although Bartholomew usually enjoyed listening to the medical musings of colleagues, the words washed over him virtually unheard that day. Instead, he stared down at the fresh pile of earth at his feet, and bade a final, silent farewell to Hemmysby.

  Bartholomew and Lawrence arrived at Winwick Hall to find that the gates had been re-hung, but they did not meet in the middle, so Jekelyn was obliged to stand sentinel in the gap. The porter stepped aside when Lawrence informed him that Bartholomew was a guest, but with such obvious reluctance that he earned himself a sharp rebuke. As the two physicians crossed the yard, the sun came out, bathing the new College in a soft yellow light.

  ‘This really is a pretty place,’ said Bartholomew, stopping to admire it. ‘But is that a crack running down one wall?’

  ‘The mason assures us that it is quite normal, and to prove it, he dragged us all over Cambridge, pointing out fissures in other buildings. Even Michaelhouse has some.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘Great big ones that let the rain in.’

  ‘Do you like the Winwick coat of arms above the door? The artist finished it today, and the paint is still wet. We are glad – our founder arrives in three days for the beginning of term ceremony, and I imagine it will be the first thing he will look for.’

  Bartholomew thought about the Stanton coat of arms at Michaelhouse, which had been so thoroughly battered by thirty-four years of weather that it was virtually invisible. It would not be long before it disappeared altogether, and future scholars would never know it had been there – assuming the College survived the double crisis of blackmail and losing all its money, of course.

  ‘We have sixty students now,’ said Lawrence, as he led the way inside. ‘It is far too many for a Provost and three Fellows, so we are recruiting reinforcements. It is a pity you know nothing about law, because I should love to have you here. Far more than your nephew.’

  They entered the massive chamber that would serve as refectory and schoolroom. Fires blazed at either end, and the benches were unsullied by chips, scratches or stains, although there were not very many of them, and Bartholomew wondered if the Winwick scholars might have to dine in shifts. Light flooded through the windows, all of which were glazed, and plain white walls accentuated the vast airiness. There was a dais in the centre of the room, with a table that had been loaded with food and wine in a casual display of affluence.

  The mourners had settled into three distinct groups. The Winwick Fellows were talking to de Stannell, every one of them splendid in his best tabard or robes of office. The Michaelhouse contingent was as far away from them as it was possible to be, huddled with scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Gonville. Unfriendly glances at their hosts suggested they were disparaging them, although that did not stop anyone from availing himself of the refreshments. And finally there were the guildsmen, a group that included Julitta and Holm, Edith, Potmoor, Hugo, Olivia Knyt and other wealthy burgesses.

  Bartholomew edged towards the latter, alarmed by the sight of his sister in company with the man she believed had murdered her husband. He arrived to find Olivia looking distressed.

  ‘I shall escort you home,’ said Potmoor solicitously. One hand was raised to his temple, and he looked tired. ‘My headache is worse, so I shall not be sorry to return to Chesterton early.’

  ‘It is a reminder of your holy visions, Father,’ said Hugo, looking around at the company to ensure they remembered that his sire had been so blessed.

  ‘Michael just told Olivia that her husband was poisoned,’ explained Edith to Bartholomew, before turning to look hard at Potmoor. Bartholomew flinched at the brazen accusation in her eyes. ‘He spotted telltale blue lesions on Hemmysby’s lips, and a hurried inspection revealed the same phenomenon on Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf as well.’

  ‘Lesions that are consistent with death from a poison named dormirella, apparently,’ added Hugo. His expression was difficult to read. ‘It might have gone undetected in all four victims, were it not for the good Brother’s vigilance.’

  ‘It is unfortunate that he was not here on Lammas Day,’ said Edith, her gaze still fixed on Potmoor. ‘He might have seen these marks on Oswald, too.’

  There was no discernible reaction from Potmoor, although that was not surprising – the man was alleged to have been involved in countless deaths, and was far too wily to betray himself with careless flickers of guilt. He merely smiled without humour.

  ‘What a pity that no one will ever know. Oswald has been in the ground far too long now.’

  ‘I hope no one thinks I had anything to do with John’s demise,’ sniffed Olivia. ‘Our marriage was not perfect, but he was a good man and I loved him.’

  ‘Oswald had a meeting the night he died,’ said Edith before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Was it with you, Master Potmoor?’

  ‘No,’ replied the felon, regarding her so coldly that Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Once he started opposing all my suggestions in Guild meetings, we had nothing more to say to each other.’

  To draw his glittering attention away from her, Bartholomew blurted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Did you do business together before that, then?’

  ‘A little,’ said Potmoor shortly. ‘Come, Olivia. You are pale, and should lie down. These revelations have given you a nasty shock.’

  He shoved roughly past Bartholomew, pulling Olivia with him. She went with obvious relief, clearly grateful to be away from the gathering. And as she did not seem to mind being whisked away so precipitously, perhaps she was glad for an opportunity to be alone with her lover, too.

  ‘Go after him, Matt,’ hissed Edith. ‘It is obvious that he is guilty. Make him confess!’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Later, when we have evidence to—’

  ‘We have it now,’ she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Namely, his gloating remark about Oswald’s body being too decayed to reveal evidence of poison. He killed my husband, just as he dispatched Olivia’s, and now he revels in the knowledge that he will not be caught. I cannot sleep at night for thinking about it.’

  Bartholomew put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I will confront him, I promise, but when the time is right. It would be a shame if he escaped justice because we tackled him too soon.’ He changed the subject before she could argue. ‘Where is Richard? I thought he would have come today, given that Hemmysby was a fellow guildsman.’

  ‘He went out last night and has not yet returned.’ The threatened tears spilled, and she dabbed at them impatiently. ‘Oswald would have hated the way he carries on. It dishonours our name, and so does the company he keeps. Will you talk to him again, Matt?’

  Bartholomew nodded, although he doubted it would do much good. He felt the familiar surge of anger towards his nephew for putting her through such needless anguish.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ she gulped. ‘Here comes de Stannell! I wish he was not Guild Secretary – he keeps pestering me for money to loan to Winwick Hall.’

  She ducked away, but de Stannell followed, and Bartholomew was about to rescue her when someone grabbed his hand. It was Julitta, and his skin tingled at her touch. He felt himself blush, and was glad Holm was not watching.

  ‘I have composed a poem,’ she confided happily. ‘Not a very good one, but the point is that you have taught me enough to manage su
ch a task. I am delighted with myself!’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘Perhaps I could visit, so you can recite it to me.’

  ‘I should like that very much, but we shall have to arrange for Will to be out. He does not like poetry, and would be bored.’

  Bartholomew refrained from remarking that Holm would be bored with anything that did not revolve around himself, and turned the discussion to the Guild’s dubious notion of charity instead. ‘Do you really believe it is better to lend money to Winwick than to feed beggars and widows?’

  Julitta sat on a bench, and indicated that he should perch next to her. ‘The transaction with the College will be like an endowment for the Guild: we set aside a specific sum now, and it will generate a regular income later. It means we shall be limited in the charity we can dispense this year, but our long-term future will be both secure and stable. Ultimately, it will help far more beggars and widows.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, and your brother-in-law would have supported the scheme unreservedly.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Poor Knyt spent far more than he raised, and our funds are at an all-time low. We are lucky Winwick agreed to our conditions, or the Guild might have been declared bankrupt.’

  ‘But what will happen to the poor in the meantime?’

  Julitta patted his hand. ‘I shall not let them starve.’

  ‘I do not understand why Winwick needs so much money when its endowment comprises the tithes from several churches and manors. It is wealthy in its own right.’

  ‘There are details to resolve before the legacy comes into force, apparently. But you should be worrying about more important matters, such as who murdered those poor men. How are your investigations proceeding?’

  ‘Slowly,’ replied Bartholomew gloomily.

  When Julitta hurried away to liberate Edith from de Stannell, Bartholomew went to talk to his fellow medici, who had taken up station near the wine.

  ‘Holm here aims to invent a tonic that will help scholars curb their baser instincts,’ said Rougham. He cast a pointed look at Julitta’s retreating form. ‘Perhaps you should test it for him, Bartholomew. We all know that you have had more lovers than Lucifer.’

  ‘Than Lucifer!’ echoed Meryfeld wonderingly, while Bartholomew thought that Rougham was a fine one to preach with his regular visits to prostitutes. ‘How do you know about Satan’s amorous interludes?’

  ‘I have heard reports,’ replied Rougham darkly. Then he turned wistful. ‘I wish I had your skill with remedies, Holm. A cure for lust will sell like hot cakes in a University town, and will make its creator very rich.’

  ‘Richer,’ corrected Holm, and shot Bartholomew a gloating glance. ‘I am already wealthy, thanks to my marriage. I am proud to call Julitta my wife, and no man will ever come between us.’

  ‘Tell us about your other cures, Holm,’ said Lawrence, transparently eager to avert a scene.

  Holm was all smug confidence. ‘I have developed a paste that makes teeth white and strong within a month. No one need suffer from stained or broken fangs ever again.’

  ‘It mends them, too?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.

  ‘Yes, if applied properly. But it is nothing compared to my remedy for gout. I have discovered that a pinch of dormirella, along with a few other choice ingredients, will banish it totally.’

  ‘What other choice ingredients?’ asked Meryfeld icily. He liked making dangerous medicines for patients himself, and was obviously chagrined that the surgeon should do it, too.

  ‘I decline to say,’ replied Holm haughtily. ‘It is a secret.’

  ‘Dormirella has but one use – as a poison,’ said Bartholomew, and because Holm had irked him, he repeated Michael’s lie, aiming to see if he could fluster the surgeon into a confession. ‘Contrary to popular belief, it is not undetectable. Obvious signs appear after a while, as evidenced by Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. I do not suppose you treated them for gout, did you?’

  Holm regarded him with such hatred that Bartholomew was hard-pressed not to recoil and, not for the first time in their acquaintance, he sensed a dangerous core beneath Holm’s vanity and casual ineptitude. He remembered the conversation about bryony, and his blood ran cold to think of Julitta living with such a man.

  ‘No,’ the surgeon replied shortly. ‘None were my patients.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Rougham. ‘You tended them all at one time or another. However, clients do die, even with the best of care, and no medicus can make a pie without breaking eggs.’

  ‘How many eggs do you break a week, Holm?’ asked Meryfeld conversationally. ‘Roughly.’

  ‘Two or three,’ replied Holm. He saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces – this was high for a man who only conducted a handful of procedures – and added, ‘Although I save far more. Cambridge is lucky to have me, and I shall be missed when I leave.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Lawrence, all amiable politeness.

  ‘London, to follow in your footsteps and offer my services to royalty. Julitta will come with me, of course. No man would be complete without a beloved wife at his side.’

  Bartholomew tried to mask his dismay, but he knew he had failed when he saw the flash of spiteful triumph in the surgeon’s eyes.

  ‘The King has recently hired a Genoese surgeon, one very well versed in dissection,’ chatted Lawrence pleasantly. ‘Perhaps he will show you some of his techniques.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Holm with a shudder. ‘Anatomy is an abomination.’

  ‘Oh fie!’ exclaimed Lawrence. ‘Studying cadavers will help improve your surgical skills.’

  ‘I am skilled enough already, thank you,’ said Holm coolly. ‘When you have seen one liver, heart and brain, you have seen them all. They are identical.’

  ‘I doubt the heart of an eighty-year-old woman is the same as that of an eight-year-old boy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘All organs will vary with age, sex, health, size and a host of other factors.’

  ‘I agree,’ nodded Lawrence. ‘And it is my contention that studying these differences will allow us to understand the nature of such diseases as—’

  ‘Dissection will teach us nothing,’ interrupted Holm. ‘Especially as the specimens available are usually from criminals. They are hardly representative of the rest of us.’

  ‘Would you rather surgeons’ cadavers were used, then?’ asked Lawrence drolly.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Holm glared at Bartholomew. ‘And if you lay so much as a finger on mine when I go, I shall return from the dead to haunt you.’

  ‘Please,’ said Rougham with a shudder. ‘No jokes about necromancy around Bartholomew, if you please. It is rather too close to the truth to be amusing.’

  ‘Who was joking?’ asked Holm.

  Eyer the apothecary was another guildsman to grace Winwick with his presence. He was standing by the food, his face grave with concentration as he chewed.

  ‘Ginger and cinnamon,’ he said, holding up a cake in one hand. Then he raised the other. ‘Nutmeg and honey. An apothecary should be able to list the ingredients in anything he eats.’

  ‘It must be a useful skill,’ said Bartholomew.

  Eyer laughed. ‘Yes – for stealing recipes from secretive cooks. Actually, I am here under false pretences – I did not attend Hemmysby’s funeral, I came to deliver a poultice for Bon’s eyes. But I am glad I stayed, because I want to warn you to be cautious around Lawrence.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lawrence? Why?’

  ‘He is not all he seems, and I do not like him.’

  ‘Really? He seems perfectly amiable to me.’

  ‘I knew him before we came here,’ explained the apothecary. ‘Years ago. I am not sure whether he will recall me, but I certainly remember him. It was in Oxford, where I was learning my trade and he was a master at the University. He made a mistake that caused a man’s death…’

  ‘It happens, unfortunately. Medicine is not an exact science.’

  ‘Well, this was pure inepti
tude,’ said Eyer. ‘Even I, a mere apprentice, knew that liquorice root can be dangerous to certain patients. God only knows how he won a royal appointment, but perhaps we should not be surprised that the Queen did not last long in his care.’

  Bartholomew disliked this sort of discussion, and wondered if Eyer’s willingness to disparage colleagues was why he himself always felt slightly reserved in the apothecary’s presence.

  ‘She was old,’ he said shortly. ‘And had been ill for some time.’

  ‘Yes, but ill with what?’ pressed Eyer. ‘Something that could have been cured by a competent practitioner? And there is something else that worries me, too. All the physicians buy powerful substances from me, and I always ask what they intend to do with them – it would not be the first time a patient has died because a medicus has failed to appreciate what he has purchased.’

  ‘We are trained to know—’ began Bartholomew.

  Eyer cut across him. ‘Lawrence wanted dwale and hemlock for a specific client a few days ago, but I happened to meet her on my way here, and she had not been in need of them at all. He lied.’

  ‘Perhaps you misunderstood,’ said Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable with the revelations.

  ‘I challenged him just now, but he denied the transaction ever took place, even though it is plainly written in my records and I remember the conversation perfectly. Perhaps the matter slipped his elderly mind, but it has left me very uneasy. Furthermore, since you and I spoke this morning, Nerli came and wanted rather a lot of realgar.’

  ‘Did you sell it to him?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘No. He claimed he wanted to set it alight, as he had read that it helps plaster to dry more quickly – a ridiculous assertion, as I am sure you will agree. I told him I had run out, because I was afraid Lawrence had sent him to get it so that he could add it to hemlock and dwale and have the makings of dormirella. However, I am not the only person who sells the stuff.’

  ‘You think they have acquired some elsewhere?’

  Eyer nodded, then his eyes fell to the cakes he was holding. ‘Heavens! Do you think dormirella has been sprinkled on these?’