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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And what is Holm’s motive for wanting Felbrigge dead, pray?’

  ‘The same as I told you the last time you asked,’ said Bartholomew with asperity. ‘Felbrigge was a prominent figure in the Guild, and Holm was jealous. Once he saw how easy it was to dispatch rivals, he decided to rid himself of others, too: Elvesmere, Knyt and Hemmysby – all to give himself a louder voice. He went in disguise to Fulbut’s house last night, and stabbed him before he could blab any secrets.’

  Michael’s response was a dismissive snort. ‘My money is on Lawrence. He was the first to arrive at Knyt’s deathbed, he bought dangerous compounds from the apothecary, he gave Ratclyf a “tonic” to cure his hangover—’

  ‘Ratclyf was not poisoned,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

  ‘Ratclyf was not poisoned with a detectable substance,’ corrected Michael. ‘But he is said to have had a weak heart, yet he had liquorice root in his purse. Lawrence professed to be surprised to see it there, but I imagine it came from him – a man who knew what the effects would be.’

  ‘You have no evidence to make that claim,’ argued Bartholomew, although he was sharply reminded of Eyer’s tale – that Lawrence had prescribed liquorice root to a patient in Oxford with fatal results. Was it possible that the elderly medicus had remembered the lesson, and had used it to eliminate an unwanted colleague? Then Bartholomew pulled himself together. Lawrence would never do such a terrible thing.

  Michael continued with his catalogue of reasons. ‘He is a physician, yet he claims not to know dormirella; Holm overheard him arguing with Hemmysby the night before Hemmysby was murdered—’

  ‘Holm!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘Of course he will want others to come under suspicion.’

  Michael ignored him. ‘Hemmysby was not the only one who incurred Lawrence’s ire: he quarrelled with Elvesmere over whether medico-legal issues are a legitimate field of study. And finally, he is physician to the brutal Potmoor – and Oxford-trained into the bargain.’

  ‘So am I,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘But Lawrence is a good man. He treats the poor.’

  ‘Quite! He is too kind and gentle. You must see it is an act. However, there are other suspects, too. I have grave reservations about Illesy, a man desperate to see his new College thrive, and who is also close to Potmoor. Then there is Potmoor himself.’

  ‘And Hugo,’ added Bartholomew. ‘We tend to overlook him, because he is in his father’s shadow, but I imagine he knows all about poisons and killing. I can certainly see him inveigling an invitation to Fulbut’s party and wielding a sly dagger.’

  Michael nodded. ‘We also have Nerli. He was seen practising swordplay with Potmoor, and he is Lawrence’s armed escort for visits to Chesterton, although he denies any such skill—’

  ‘He studied at Salerno, but I have never heard of that university offering a Masters in Civil Law. Perhaps I should ask him about it.’

  ‘No – there are more important questions he should answer first. Such as why did he try to buy realgar and later deny it? Why was he so eager to see his colleagues buried? And why did he really order the remains of Ratclyf’s breakfast pottage thrown away? After all, if anyone knows about poisons, it will be a Florentine. Moreover, he has a dark and angry look that unsettles me.’

  ‘I suppose he is a little sinister.’

  ‘More than a little.’ Michael hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am afraid your nephew is also on my list. He is not the man he was, Matt. He—’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Richard may have changed, but he is not a killer.’

  Michael made no reply, and there was an uncomfortable silence that lasted until the monk asked, ‘When will we know whether Hemmysby’s tart and my Lombard slices were poisoned?’

  ‘As soon as we can see well enough not to harm ourselves in the process.’

  ‘Good.’ There came the sound of a knife scraping across bristles.

  ‘Term starts tomorrow.’ Bartholomew slumped on a bench and did not try to keep the dejection from his voice. ‘We have six unsolved deaths, Winwick Hall will cause trouble with the other Colleges at the opening ceremony, and Marjory Starre thinks its founder might be assassinated when he visits. And to top it all, we are at the mercy of a blackmailer. I think we may be defeated this time, Brother.’

  ‘No,’ said the monk fiercely. ‘I am not going to lose my College to sly tactics, and a killer will not get the better of the Senior Proctor. I will think of something, do not worry.’

  He emerged from the screen a new man: his hair was combed, his plump face was scrubbed pink and glowing, and he had donned a fresh habit. He looked fit, strong and he exuded confidence. Perhaps he would do what he promised, thought Bartholomew with a sudden surge of hope.

  They walked into the storeroom just as Cynric began to ring the bell to wake the scholars for church. Bartholomew flung open the window shutters, and turned to the shelf on which he had left the crumbs soaking, only to find there was no trace of them. He looked around in consternation. The rank odour of his experiments lingered, although even that was rapidly dispersing in the fresh air.

  ‘You left the door unlocked,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘And I know exactly what happened.’

  He stalked into Bartholomew’s bedchamber, where the medical students were donning their tabards and smoothing down their hair. As usual, those with real stubble had not bothered to shave, while those with boyish fluff were making a great show of shearing it off.

  ‘Who has been in the storeroom?’ Michael demanded without preamble.

  ‘All of us, sir,’ replied Aungel. He shrugged apologetically. ‘I know Doctor Bartholomew said not to, but there was a terrible smell, and when we looked inside, there was something brown and squishy on a high shelf. We assumed he had let something rot by mistake…’

  ‘What did you do with it?’ asked Bartholomew wearily.

  ‘Goodwyn thought it was releasing dangerous miasmas, which he said would make you ill when you sleep in there. So he told us to throw it in the midden.’

  ‘I did,’ drawled Goodwyn. ‘We cannot have you dead quite so early in the year. Who would teach us how to tend the sick?’

  There was a defiant glint in his eye, and Bartholomew had taught enough students to know his authority was being challenged yet again. It could not be allowed to continue.

  ‘Leave,’ he ordered.

  ‘Leave what?’ asked Goodwyn insolently. ‘This room, so you can tell everyone that I am a bad influence on them? I think I shall stay, if it is all the same to you.’

  ‘Michaelhouse. I am not teaching disobedient pupils, and you have had your chance. See whether Winwick will take you. You are more suited to law than medicine anyway.’

  ‘But I do not want to study law,’ objected Goodwyn. ‘I like it here.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before defying me.’ Bartholomew turned to the rest of his silent, stunned class. ‘You will be late for Mass if you stand here with your mouths open.’

  There was a concerted rush towards the door, and Bartholomew noted wryly that all were careful not to catch his eye.

  ‘You cannot dismiss me,’ said Goodwyn when they had gone. ‘I paid a term’s fees, which gives me the right to stay until Christmas. And Michaelhouse is not so rich that—’

  ‘Your money is forfeit,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Read the College statutes. We are not obliged to repay anything if a student is dismissed for bad behaviour – and yours has been abominable from the moment you stepped through our gates.’

  The blood drained from Goodwyn’s face. ‘No,’ he said, uncertain for the first time. ‘If you must insist on ousting me, then I want my money back. It is a colossal sum.’

  Cynric was by the door, curious as to what had precipitated the stampede into the yard.

  ‘Goodwyn is leaving,’ Bartholomew told the book-bearer briskly. ‘Help him pack, and escort him out. I want him gone by the time I return.’

  Cynric’s grin said he w
ould relish the task. Goodwyn opened his mouth to argue again, but Bartholomew turned on his heel and strode away. Michael followed.

  ‘I liked the lie about the statutes, Matt. You almost convinced me, and I know it is fiction.’

  Bartholomew grinned, then went to the back of the kitchens, where he prodded about in the midden with a stick. ‘Here!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Yes! The crumbs are still in their dishes. The experiment is not ruined after all.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Michael impatiently.

  ‘Dormirella,’ replied Bartholomew, his exultation draining away as he realised the implications of his discovery. ‘The excitement of the debate probably let Hemmysby ward off the symptoms during the day, but they overpowered him when he was walking home in the evening. What he ate in the vestry later was irrelevant.’

  ‘So we wasted our time investigating that?’

  Bartholomew nodded apologetically. ‘And all because I cannot tell the difference between digested raisin tart and digested fruitcake. Moreover, William said he saw Hemmysby that morning walking “oddly hunched, like Judas in the mystery plays”. He offered it up as evidence that Hemmysby had behaved suspiciously on the day that the Stanton Hutch went missing.’

  ‘But he had eaten the poison, and it had started to work,’ surmised Michael. ‘He might have consulted you at any other time, but he was enjoying his success at the Cambridge Debate too much. He was probably afraid you would order him to stay home and rest.’

  ‘I knew dormirella was not instantly incapacitating,’ said Bartholomew, scrubbing tiredly at his face. ‘I should have taken that into account when we were trying to work out what had happened. It was an unforgivable oversight on my part.’

  ‘And the Lombard slices? Are they poisoned, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Enough to kill a horse. Someone does not want you investigating, Brother.’

  ‘Then let us ensure the villain is right to be worried,’ said Michael grimly.

  As Bartholomew listened to Suttone chanting Mass, the tension within him drained away. St Michael’s was a beautiful, peaceful place, and he felt his sagging spirits begin to revive. Unfortunately, his sense of tranquillity did not last long. There was shuffling in the nave, and when it was time for the Magnificat, dozens of bellowing voices joined in. Michael smiled beatifically.

  ‘I thought you might appreciate a little surprise,’ he told his shattered colleagues when it was over and he could make himself heard. ‘They will perform that piece tomorrow at St Mary the Great. Well? What did you think?’

  ‘Some of the words were recognisable,’ replied Langelee, the only one brave enough to venture an opinion. ‘And you can certainly be sure of making an impact.’

  He indicated that Suttone was to continue the rite, and by the time it was over, the ambiguous remark had been forgotten. The choir lingered, fishing for compliments, and Bartholomew was astounded by the size of it. It comprised not only most of the town’s poor, but twice as many students as had been at the practice three days before, when fights had broken out over the bread and ale. The mix remained an uneasy one, and the atmosphere was decidedly edgy.

  ‘Are you sure it is wise to keep them in each other’s company?’ asked Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked back to the College. ‘Some almost came to blows during the Nunc Dimittus.’

  ‘They will not do it again,’ vowed Michael. ‘The ringleaders of that unedifying spectacle will be expelled, and the remainder will behave or they will follow, no matter how desperate they are for free food. Hah! There is de Stannell. I want a word with him.’

  The deputy was loping along the High Street with a worried, distracted air that did nothing to inspire confidence in his ability to run a large and busy shire.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped when Michael hailed him. ‘I am busy.’

  It was no way to address the University’s Senior Proctor, and Michael reined in his temper with difficulty. ‘There are rumours that the town will attack our procession tomorrow. How will you prevent it?’

  ‘The tale I have heard is that your clerks will attack each other,’ countered de Stannell. ‘Those who cannot find a College or a hostel want to vent their spleen on those who have. The predicted trouble has nothing to do with us, so the problem is yours to solve.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that if there is a spat, townsmen will join in,’ said Michael irritably. ‘You cannot skulk in your castle and pretend that nothing is happening.’

  ‘Declining to risk my troops to protect your scholars is not skulking,’ flashed de Stannell. ‘It is being prudent. If you do not like it, take it up with Tulyet when he returns.’

  He stalked off, leaving Michael staring after him in exasperation. ‘I never thought to say Tulyet is a fool, but he must have been insane to have appointed that ape as his assistant.’

  ‘Speaking of apes, there is Holm,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where the surgeon was selling one of his new patent medicines to Uyten, assuring the student that his teeth would regrow within four weeks. ‘We should ask him about the quarrel he overheard between Hemmysby and Lawrence. Marjory Starre may have misunderstood what he told her.’

  ‘Let me do it,’ said Michael. ‘You can ask Uyten why he was in the King’s Head last night. He is slinking away now he has seen us looking. After him, Matt!’

  Bartholomew ignored the order, preferring to question the surgeon than engage in an undignified chase up the High Street. But if he was expecting Holm to incriminate himself with careless slips of the tongue, he was to be disappointed.

  ‘Yes, I heard them,’ the surgeon said. ‘Lawrence was angry with Hemmysby on two counts. First, for saying that Winwick Hall has too great a say in Guild affairs, and second, for humiliating his colleagues at the debate. Hemmysby told him he would do both again if the opportunity arose.’

  ‘Hemmysby would never have said such a thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He—’

  ‘Why did you not tell us?’ asked Michael, raising a hand to warn Bartholomew into silence. ‘You knew he was murdered, and this might have a bearing on the case.’

  ‘Why should I help you? I do not care whether scholars are murdered or not.’ Holm looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘And stay away from Julitta. She belongs to me, and always will.’

  He stalked away, but Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm before he could follow.

  ‘Leave him, Matt. He is not worth the trouble that would follow if you thumped him.’

  ‘A confession might follow if I thumped him,’ said Bartholomew sullenly.

  ‘One that would be retracted as soon as the danger was over, and that would make it more difficult to challenge him in the future. If we are going to charge him with anything, we need solid evidence, not suspicions. And especially not the suspicions of the man who hankers after his wife.’

  Bartholomew did not answer, because he knew the monk was right. They returned to Michaelhouse, where he was pleased to find Goodwyn gone and Cynric reorganising the room. Then the breakfast bell chimed, and he walked to the hall, noting that no one ran up the stairs any more – the food simply did not warrant the effort.

  ‘Where is Clippesby?’ asked Langelee, after intoning one of his eclectic graces and indicating that his scholars could begin eating. A few did, but most looked at what had been provided with a mixture of revulsion and dismay.

  ‘With the chickens again,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘It is hardly natural, Master, and you should do something about it. Next term promises to be difficult, and his madness will put needless pressure on the rest of us. Dismiss him, and enrol a rational man in his place.’

  ‘He is not mad,’ countered William. ‘He is eccentric. And he is a better man than you.’

  ‘Defending the Dominicans?’ Thelnetham knew exactly how to needle the Franciscan. ‘Next you will be saying that you have decided to become one.’

  ‘Never,’ declared William hotly. ‘They are Satan-lovers, and God will—’

  ‘We should discuss hiring Hemmysby’s re
placement soon,’ said Suttone, cutting into the burgeoning spat. ‘Preferably before term starts, as we cannot teach his classes as well as our own.’

  ‘How can we appoint a new Fellow?’ hissed Langelee irritably. ‘We are destitute, remember? Of course, we may not have to worry about next term if the blackmailer makes good on his threat. He is expecting twenty marks in four hours, and we do not have it.’

  ‘Damn you, William,’ muttered Thelnetham. ‘As if we did not have enough problems. It—’

  ‘The Saturday Sermon,’ interrupted Langelee, changing the subject before the Gilbertine could begin a tirade. ‘We postponed it until today because of Hemmysby. I know it is your turn to hold forth, Thelnetham, but I invited the scholars of Winwick Hall to speak instead. You can save whatever you have prepared for next week.’

  ‘Hah!’ crowed William. ‘He does not want to hear your rubbishy ideas, so he recruited better men.’

  ‘Actually, I did it so that Michael can quiz them about these murders,’ countered Langelee. ‘He tells me that they are among his suspects for killing Hemmysby, so who knows? Perhaps being in his victim’s home will unsettle the culprit and cause him to blurt out something incriminating.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I was wondering how I was going to ask more questions without alienating them with yet another visit.’

  ‘I shall be delighted to hear them preach,’ said Suttone. ‘I was impressed by Nerli at the debate, although the others were disappointing. Perhaps they will do better in less formal surroundings.’

  ‘Nerli will give the main address,’ said Langelee. ‘Afterwards, we shall attack his thesis, while his colleagues defend it. It will be disputation in its highest form, so that our new students can appreciate how it should be done.’

  ‘What an excellent idea, Master,’ said William. ‘It will be much better for them than listening to this boring Gilbertine.’