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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘If so, I think you, of all people, would have noticed – it tastes faintly of garlic.’

  Eyer looked relieved. ‘Of course! And there was no garlic here. However, one cannot be too careful.’ He dropped them on the floor, and wiped his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I shall make myself a purge immediately.’

  ‘I seriously doubt the poisoner will strike at quite so many people—’

  ‘Easy for you to say! You came when there was nothing left to eat. You are not at risk.’

  After Eyer had raced away, Michael approached. The food and wine had run out, so most of the guests had gone home, and it was thus a good time to question the Winwick men about Elvesmere and Ratclyf. The monk wanted Bartholomew with him to gauge their reactions. As they walked to the other side of the hall, Bartholomew summarised his discussion with Eyer. Michael’s expression was thoughtful as he advanced on the Winwick men, but before he could speak, Nerli began a diatribe.

  ‘It was a shock to be told that our two colleagues had been poisoned, Brother,’ he declared. ‘Especially poor Ratclyf. We thought his weak heart had killed him.’

  ‘Which is what the killer intended,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘He no doubt believes that dormirella is undetectable, but he is sadly mistaken.’

  ‘What terrible things you know,’ said Bon wonderingly. ‘For once I am glad I am blind, because I should not like to see these blue-stained lips.’

  ‘You bought dwale and hemlock recently,’ said Michael to Lawrence, then turned to Nerli, ‘while you purchased realgar. It means the Fellows of Winwick Hall are in possession of three of the ingredients in dormirella – the toxin that killed your two friends.’

  Nerli’s black eyes flashed with anger. ‘I did no such thing, and anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. I have no need to murder my colleagues. Or anyone else for that matter. In fact, I am disinclined to believe your tale of blue lips. You made it up.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bon, bemused. ‘It would be a wicked thing to do.’

  ‘To discredit Winwick Hall,’ snapped Nerli. ‘He is jealous of us, and would love to see us fail. But it is the other Colleges that will flounder. Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Gonville, Bene’t – all will fall beneath the steady tread of our advancement.’

  ‘Easy, Nerli,’ said Lawrence uncomfortably. ‘There is no need for passion.’ He smiled at Michael, although the expression was more wary than happy. ‘I am afraid you are mistaken about my purchases, Brother. I never use dwale and hemlock, as I feel the risks outweigh the benefits. I always have.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you treat severe inflammations, tumours and swellings? Gentle treatments are rarely effective on the more serious ailments.’

  ‘I pray,’ replied Lawrence shortly, and turned back to Michael. ‘And Nerli is right – this tale of blue lips does seem outlandish. Are you sure about it?’

  ‘I am. But if you doubt me, come to St Mary the Great and look.’

  Bartholomew was horrified, sure his artwork would never pass muster to sceptical eyes in the cold light of day. And what if the Winwick men wanted to inspect the rest of their colleagues’ remains, and the incisions were discovered?

  ‘No!’ said Nerli quickly. ‘We should leave our dead in peace. Have they not suffered enough? It would be wicked to disturb their rest.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Lawrence. ‘Indeed, I recommended that they all be buried by now – Michaelhouse did not dally with Hemmysby, and we should have afforded the same consideration to Elvesmere and Ratclyf.’

  ‘You know why we delayed,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Like Mistress Knyt, we wanted our colleagues buried on a Sunday, which is a holier day than—’

  ‘Superstition,’ interrupted Nerli disdainfully. ‘Or are you of the belief that our colleagues need all the advantages they can get when their souls are weighed?’

  ‘We all do,’ said Illesy shortly. ‘Fallible mortals that we are.’

  Nerli made an angry gesture with his hand. ‘Regardless, I strongly protest against further indignities to their poor corpses. We should leave them alone.’

  ‘They will not object in the interests of truth,’ said Illesy, and shot Nerli a look that was difficult to interpret. ‘So follow me, and let us see this “evidence” for ourselves.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and marched towards the church, where Michael scowled at the proprietary way he flung open the door. They reached the Lady Chapel, and Illesy indicated with an imperious flick of his hand that his Fellows were to open the caskets.

  ‘You are the medicus, Lawrence,’ he said, watching Nerli wrestle with the clasps. ‘You examine them – not just Ratclyf and Elvesmere, but Knyt, too.’

  ‘I am not qualified to probe the secrets of corpses,’ protested the elderly medicus. ‘And while I have no objection to anatomical studies in principle, I do not want to engage in them myself.’

  ‘I am not asking you to carry out a dissection,’ said Illesy impatiently. ‘Just to look and see if they have blue lips. Come on, man! It cannot be that difficult.’

  With considerable reluctance, Lawrence bent over the coffins, watched intently by Illesy, Nerli and Michael, while Bon cocked his head this way and that as he struggled to determine what was happening from the odd grunt and tut. Bartholomew stood well back, trying to decide whether to take to his heels if the deception was spotted, or stay and attempt to brazen it out.

  ‘Two or three tiny blue blemishes,’ said Lawrence eventually, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. ‘On Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Nerli in disbelief.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lawrence. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  But Nerli shook his head and backed away.

  ‘This is dreadful,’ whispered Bon. ‘I knew the other Colleges and the town were jealous of our good fortune, but I did not think their bile would extend to murder. Poor Elvesmere! He was my closest friend. And poor Ratclyf, too! He was making great strides towards finalising our College’s endowment. How shall we manage now he is gone?’

  ‘I wonder if these “great strides” troubled him,’ mused Illesy. ‘He spent so much time at prayer that I sometimes wondered whether he was entirely happy about some of the things he was obliged to do as bursar. Money matters are invariably sordid.’

  ‘I had to give him medicine for anxiety,’ put in Lawrence. ‘And then there was…’

  ‘Then there was what?’ asked Michael.

  Lawrence’s expression was bleak. ‘I could not reveal this were he still alive, but I came in here on Tuesday, and he was on his knees by Elvesmere’s body, begging for forgiveness.’

  Michael regarded him sharply. ‘Like a killer and his victim?’

  Lawrence would not meet his eyes. ‘It appeared that way to me. And before you ask, I did not tell anyone, because it was none of my business.’

  ‘You misinterpreted what you saw,’ declared Illesy. ‘The culprit is someone outside the College. And do not say Potmoor, because poisons are not his style.’

  It was hardly a resounding endorsement of his former employer’s innocence, and Michael was about to say so when Nerli spoke.

  ‘We shall bury all three today, and to Hell with waiting for Sunday. After all, we do not want anyone else to poke at them for ghoulish curiosity. It would be sacrilege, a crime I abhor with all my heart.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew guiltily. ‘Do you?’

  All was bustle and flurry as preparations were made for interring the three dead men. Olivia Knyt was summoned, the gravedigger ordered to ready the holes he had dug, and a vicar hired. The priest was Heyford, ever eager for extra fees. He arrived with one hand to his stomach.

  ‘I was poisoned last night,’ he told Michael and Bartholomew. ‘I lay deadly sick until dawn, but God saw my suffering and I am now on the mend. Doubtless Potmoor would have preferred to incinerate me, but he dares not try that again. Did I tell you that the villain he engaged for that evil
deed was not Fulbut at all, but someone from Winwick Hall?’

  ‘No,’ replied Michael, eyeing him warily. ‘How have you reached that conclusion?’

  ‘One of my parishioners saw a man racing away from St Clement’s shortly before the alarm was raised, and followed him to that Devil’s foundation. The scoundrel was in disguise, of course, so my parishioner could not tell which of these rogues is the culprit.’

  ‘Yet you come to bury their dead?’

  Heyford sniffed. ‘I am prepared to overlook the connection for a shilling a corpse. Besides, I doubt they will attack me in St Mary the Great – not with you looking on.’

  The vicar’s tale reminded Bartholomew of something he had all but forgotten. Moments before he had seen the smoke issuing from St Clement’s, a man in green had almost knocked him over. It had not occurred to him that it might have been the arsonist, especially once Fulbut had been mooted as the culprit.

  ‘What was he wearing?’ he asked.

  ‘A grass-coloured cloak,’ replied Heyford. ‘Why? Did you see him, too, and decide to keep the matter to yourself because it shows your accursed University in a bad light?’

  ‘How could he have seen anyone?’ asked Michael sharply. ‘He was too busy saving your life. And why have you waited until now to tell us what this witness saw?’

  ‘Because I have only just heard it myself. It came from Verius, who is never very forthcoming with the authorities. However, I shall expect you to investigate Winwick, and bring the villain to justice. I always said there was something diabolical about that College, and I was right!’

  ‘Has Heyford been poisoned, Matt?’ asked Michael, when the priest had gone to robe himself for his sombre duties.

  ‘Not with dormirella. No one recovers from that once it has been ingested.’ Then Bartholomew told him about the collision outside St Clement’s.

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder which Winwick Fellow owns green clothes. Illesy, who will know all about murder after working for Potmoor? The sweetly smiling Lawrence with his Oxford connections? The sinister Nerli?’

  ‘Well, it was not Bon, as the man I saw was too tall. Of course, it could have been Holm.’

  ‘Holm?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘Why would he run to Winwick?’

  ‘Because it is full of guildsmen who would give him sanctuary.’ Bartholomew was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘It is odd how everything revolves around that College: two of its scholars suffer premature deaths, it is largely responsible for the matriculand trouble, its Fellows possess the necessary ingredients for dormirella, and now the St Clement’s arsonist flees there.’

  ‘It is not odd, Matt,’ averred Michael. ‘It is downright suspicious.’

  Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf were in the ground and the evidence of his handiwork was safely concealed. Langelee was relieved, too, because the hasty burial meant that Michaelhouse could not be expected to provide a reciprocal feast. When the last spadeful of earth was being patted down, Bartholomew went with Michael to talk to Verius. The ditcher was at home, regaling his wife with a romantic ballad. Again, Bartholomew was astounded that such a pure, clear voice should emanate from such a loutish individual.

  ‘Heyford told you?’ asked Verius crossly, when he heard why the two scholars had come. ‘I knew I should have kept it to myself. Now Potmoor will hear, and come to rail at me.’

  ‘It was Potmoor who set the church alight?’ asked Michael.

  ‘No, it was someone from Winwick Hall, but I imagine Potmoor hired him.’ Verius played nervously with the bandage on his thumb. ‘I was in the church at the time, hiding from a man I owe money to. I saw a rogue in a green cloak lurk in the shadows until Heyford was drunk, then step forward and set the altar cloth alight.’

  ‘And you followed the culprit to Winwick Hall?’ asked Michael.

  Verius nodded. ‘Because I assumed Heyford would smell the smoke, and get up to douse the flames. I did not think one jug of ale would send him to sleep. He is a feeble—’

  ‘Winwick,’ prompted Bartholomew.

  ‘The man in the cloak walked in there with all the confidence of Satan, so it was clearly his home. The cloak had black edges, and the hood was up, which means I never saw his face. He was of average height and build, though, so it might have been any of that rabble.’

  ‘Not any of them,’ countered Ylaria. ‘It could not have been that horrible Uyten, because he is tall and brawny. And it could not have been Ratclyf or Bon, because they are small.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Verius. ‘You can eliminate them from your enquiries, Brother.’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael flatly. ‘That only leaves the Provost, two Fellows, sixty students and three dozen servants. Solving the riddle will be simplicity itself.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The following day was Sunday, when there was an extended Mass and a better breakfast. It was egg mash – eggs cooked with smoked pork – and although there was less meat than usual, the food was at least palatable. Afterwards, Bartholomew and Michael set off to Winwick, to ask who had a green cloak with black edging. Needless to say, no one admitted to owning such a garment, and Illesy procrastinated for so long before allowing a search that the guilty party would have had ample time to dispose of it. Michael looked anyway, just to make a nuisance of himself.

  ‘This is a fire hazard,’ he declared, when they came to the dormitory above the hall. ‘There must be sixty students in here. It was never intended to hold so many.’

  ‘Seventy-three,’ corrected Illesy smugly. ‘And our lads love it up here. It is new, clean and affords excellent views of the town.’

  Bartholomew did not think it was clean – it reeked of sweaty feet – while the views were obscured by the clothes that had been left hanging over the window shutters.

  ‘We shall tidy it up before the founder arrives,’ said Lawrence, reading his thoughts. ‘Word is that he has already left London, and is on his way. He must be very excited.’

  ‘Are you sure it was wise to invite him?’ asked Michael. ‘He will learn that his College is unpopular with the rest of the University and the town, and I cannot see that pleasing him.’

  ‘He does not care what people think,’ said Illesy. ‘If he did, he would not have grown so rich and powerful. Or accepted so many lucrative posts in the Church – a dozen canonries and seven rectories, at the last count.’

  ‘A shameless pluralist,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, as they walked back down the stairs. ‘I shall abolish the practice when I am Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  Bartholomew smothered a smile. ‘And when will that be, Brother?’

  ‘As soon as the University can manage without me,’ replied the monk. ‘Which it is unable to do at the moment, so do not fear my departure just yet.’

  Bartholomew trailed after him as he looked in the parlura, hall and library, but was glad when the invitation to inspect the Fellows’ quarters and the Provost’s Suite was declined – the point had been made, and anything more would be a waste of their time. Michael did, however, inveigle an invitation to Winwick’s mid-morning repast, where he tried every ruse he knew to catch the Fellows out in an indiscretion, but they were lawyers and his efforts to trick them were futile. Eventually, he was forced to concede defeat, and he and Bartholomew took their leave.

  ‘We have two days before term starts,’ he said, once they were outside. ‘Two days! And we are no closer to the truth now than we were when all this started. Indeed, our position is worse, because we have more victims to investigate. Moreover, we have William’s tract hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, and we have done nothing to retrieve our hutch.’

  Bartholomew had no words to comfort him. The monk stalked off towards St Mary the Great, where he was needed for decisions about the beginning of term ceremony, after which he would hold another choir practice, while Bartholomew, still plagued with nervous thoughts about dissection, sought comfort in the familiar round of tending pat
ients. There were a lot of them, and they kept him busy well into the afternoon.

  All were eager to regale him with rumours about the agitated state of the town, and he grew increasingly alarmed by the sour atmosphere on the streets. Thus he was uncharacteristically sharp when Warden Shropham stopped him to say that Potmoor had broken into King’s Hall on Thursday.

  ‘How do you know Potmoor was the culprit?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I did not need to see him,’ replied Shropham, taken aback by the angry response. ‘What other criminal would be so audacious?’

  ‘You say a pewter jug was stolen,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘But I imagine a felon of his eminence would have selected something rather more valuable.’

  ‘He was disturbed before he had the chance to look around,’ Shropham flashed back. ‘He was obliged to make such a speedy escape that he cut himself on a window, and left splashes of his nasty blood on our nice wood floor. Let us hope it hurts, because it is the only punishment he will ever suffer – de Stannell will not move against a fellow guildsman, and Michael is too busy.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘The culprit is injured? Why did you not say so? It means that Michael can look for a gash on Potmoor and ask how it happened.’

  ‘Potmoor will lie – say he cut himself shaving or some such nonsense. But something should be done, because he becomes more powerful and dangerous with every passing day. Indeed, I imagine he is behind these murders, too. Felbrigge, Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt.’

  ‘And Hemmysby,’ said Bartholomew unhappily.

  Shropham softened. ‘I am more sorry than I can say about him. He was a good man. Forgive my insensitivity, Bartholomew. I am in a bad mood, because I have just heard that Winwick has almost matched us in numbers. And by the beginning of term, it may even be bigger.’

  ‘Does that matter? There are students enough for both.’

  ‘It is the principle of the thing. We have always been the largest, and it is not right for this upstart foundation to come along and usurp our place in a matter of days. Moreover, it is our prerogative to have first pick of the wealthiest and most influential applicants, but Winwick is poaching them from right under our noses.’