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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, appalled. ‘You may be right.’

  Langelee glanced behind him, where the hall teemed with people. ‘And the culprit might be here right now, so for God’s sake go and catch him before he succeeds.’

  The thought that such a person – Hemmysby’s poisoner – might be settling himself comfortably on a bench in Michaelhouse’s hall made Bartholomew feel physically sick. He leaned against the wall at the back and watched the guests avail themselves of the refreshments, which were distributed in dribs and drabs as they arrived from the various priories. There was, however, no contribution from the Dominicans, despite repeated appeals from Clippesby.

  Potmoor stood near the door, so as to be first at the platters when they appeared. Hugo and Holm were giggling together on his right, and de Stannell was on his left, nodding sycophantically at everything he said. Julitta sat by Edith, and Bartholomew was not sure who was comforting whom as they clutched each other’s hands. Holm’s fondness for Hugo was hurtful to Julitta, while Edith kept staring at the man she believed had murdered her husband.

  The Fellows of Winwick stood near the dais, the brooding Nerli, Illesy with his fingers thick with rings, and Bon gripping Lawrence’s arm. Bartholomew watched the elderly medicus direct his charge to a chair. Were Julitta and Michael right to question Lawrence’s character? When the old man abandoned his Winwick colleagues to chat to Meryfeld and Eyer, Bartholomew joined the three of them, supposing he should try to find out.

  ‘If Holm really has discovered a cure for gout,’ Meryfeld was saying sulkily, ‘he should tell us what is in it, so we can help our own patients. It is unethical to keep the secret to himself.’

  ‘He does not want the competition,’ said Eyer, tactfully not mentioning that Meryfeld never shared his own remedies. ‘Still, he told me that his potion comprises mostly angelica and powdered chalk, so if it does not work, at least we can be assured that it will do no harm.’

  He glanced at Lawrence, making it clear that he thought the same could not be said of his treatments. Lawrence only beamed back, and Bartholomew gazed at him in wonderment. Was he really such an innocent that he could not see the obvious challenge in the apothecary’s glare?

  ‘I thought you might like to read this,’ Lawrence said, tearing his eyes away from Eyer to hand Bartholomew a scroll. He smiled genially. ‘It is a little treatise I composed on ailments of the ears, which may be of interest to you.’

  ‘I dislike reading,’ declared Meryfeld, watching the parchment change hands with marked distaste. ‘I always say that if something needs to be written down, then it is not worth remembering.’

  ‘That is a crass remark to make in a hall of learning.’ They all turned to see Holm standing behind them. ‘What a fool you are, Meryfeld! No wonder Lawrence has poached all your best patients.’

  ‘I have done no such thing,’ objected Lawrence, blushing uncomfortably.

  ‘What about Potmoor, then?’ demanded Holm. ‘He was Meryfeld’s, but now he is yours.’

  ‘That was Potmoor’s decision, not mine.’ Lawrence flailed about for a way to change the subject. ‘What a delight it is to be here! I have never been inside before. It is very … cosy.’

  ‘He means poky,’ translated Holm, looking around disparagingly. ‘I cannot imagine it is pleasant in winter. None of the windows are glazed, and there is only one fireplace.’

  ‘We manage well enough,’ said Bartholomew, disliking criticism from such a quarter. Before he could add more, Holm was off on another contentious subject.

  ‘I fed some dormirella to a rat yesterday, and its lips have not turned blue, which is curious, given what Brother Michael claimed about the stuff.’

  ‘Why did you do such a thing?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately suspicious.

  ‘I have an enquiring mind, and I do not believe everything I am told.’

  Holm looked so hard at Bartholomew that the physician wondered whether he knew the truth. If so, did it mean he was the killer, and had conducted the experiment in a panic? It certainly made sense that he was the blackmailer – by attacking Michaelhouse, he struck a blow at his rival for Julitta’s affections.

  ‘I had never heard of dormirella before Michael mentioned it the other day,’ said Lawrence amiably. ‘But Nerli tells me that burning it is an excellent way to dry wet plaster.’

  ‘Actually, it is not,’ countered Eyer. ‘I can suggest much better remedies. Cheaper ones, too. Using dormirella to air out rooms is like using wine to clean latrines.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lawrence, and hastened to change the subject again, presumably to conceal his ignorance. ‘Come with me to talk to Nerli, Matthew. He studied in Salerno, where you attended all those dissections. Perhaps you and he have mutual acquaintances.’

  Holm immediately embarked on a vicious denunciation of anatomical studies, and Bartholomew was glad when Lawrence tugged him away, as he had no desire to listen to such an unintelligent tirade. He happened to glance back as he went, and was stunned by the look of black hatred on the surgeon’s face. It was quickly masked, but told him yet again that Holm was a dangerous adversary who meant him serious harm.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Lawrence in a low voice. ‘He is a snake. Meanwhile, Meryfeld is an ass, and Eyer is a pompous bore with shameful secrets.’

  The apothecary had said much the same about Lawrence, Bartholomew recalled. Had Lawrence heard that his past had been gossiped about, and decided to retaliate in kind? Bartholomew was no more comfortable listening to him than he had been listening to Eyer, but before he could change the subject, the elderly medicus began muttering in his ear.

  ‘It concerns an incident in Oxford many years ago, and—’

  ‘Be careful, Lawrence.’ Both physicians turned to see that Eyer had followed them. ‘Slander is a criminal offence, you know.’

  Lawrence’s expression was coolly aloof. ‘It is only slander if the tale is untrue. But you seem to have done well for yourself in your current occupation, so let us say no more about it. Unless you want to confide in Matthew, of course. But that is your decision, not mine.’

  Eyer scowled at him. ‘I think we both know that I have no choice after that cunning little speech.’ He addressed Bartholomew stiffly. ‘The truth is that I have not always been an apothecary. I was training to be a physician in Oxford, but was … asked to leave.’

  ‘Sent down,’ elaborated Lawrence. ‘For experimenting on patients before he was qualified – with herbs and potions of his own devising.’

  ‘Herbs and potions that worked,’ flashed Eyer. ‘My punishment was a gross miscarriage of justice, and all because the local apothecaries were jealous of my success. They hounded the Master of Balliol until he was forced to dismiss me. But I always was more interested in cures than diseases, so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lawrence archly. ‘But the episode means that you are unlikely to be endorsed by a professional body, so your practice here is almost certainly illegal. Charitably, I have turned a blind eye, but perhaps I should not have done.’

  As trade associations tended to be fussy about who they sanctioned, and would certainly not overlook the kind of confrontation Lawrence had described, Bartholomew imagined Eyer probably was operating without the necessary licence. And Lawrence’s tale explained a great deal – the inconsistencies in Eyer’s stories about his past, his occasionally puzzling manner, and his trespassing on the physicians’ domain by making diagnoses. It also explained why Eyer had tried to blacken Lawrence’s name: it had been a pre-emptive strike against a man who could destroy him.

  But for all his flaws, Eyer was a reliable practitioner, and Bartholomew had not forgotten his willingness to provide free medicines for the poor. Such generosity deserved its reward, and he felt it was incumbent on him to repair the rift if he could.

  ‘If you expose him, he will be forced to leave,’ he told Lawrence. ‘And we shall be deprived of a decent apothecary. That would be a pity – for us an
d our patients. Moreover, I have no complaints about the service he has provided, and neither have Rougham and Meryfeld.’

  ‘True,’ sighed Lawrence, and favoured Eyer with one of his kindly smiles. ‘Shall we be friends, then? Perhaps you will dine with me in Winwick one evening next week.’

  Eyer muttered his acceptance and hurried to an open window, where he began to gulp down deep breaths of fresh air. Lawrence watched him thoughtfully, then resumed his walk towards Nerli without another word. Was that a flash of spiteful satisfaction in his eyes, Bartholomew wondered – glee that he had exposed the apothecary’s dubious past while deftly deflecting attention from his own? Bartholomew was tempted to pursue Eyer’s allegations, but pragmatism prevailed. He had more important questions to ask.

  ‘Did you argue with Hemmysby about him savaging your colleagues in St Mary the Great, and the fact that Winwick has too great a say in Guild politics?’

  ‘No,’ replied Lawrence, rather more sharply than was his wont. ‘As I have told you before. We had a mild exchange of opinion. William and Thelnetham were there in the vestry with us, so ask them about it if you do not believe me. They will confirm what I say.’

  ‘I meant after the first day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were any threats exchanged then?’

  Lawrence laughed, although there was a brittle quality to the guffaws. ‘Of course not! He was not the kind of fellow to issue threats, and I am sure you cannot imagine me doing it.’

  He had hailed his Winwick colleagues before Bartholomew could question him further. Illesy scowled, Nerli grimaced, and Bon wore a moue of distaste, as if being in Michaelhouse was beneath him. None were expressions that encouraged Bartholomew to make them welcome, and he felt his hackles begin to rise. He struggled to mask his objection at having such people in his home.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Lawrence asked jovially. ‘The honour of Winwick rests in our hands today.’

  ‘We shall prevail,’ said Bon. ‘Michaelhouse’s reputation in the University is poor, while our minds are honed sharp.’

  Bartholomew would not normally have challenged a guest, but there was something about the Winwick men that made him unwilling to stand meekly by while his colleagues were insulted.

  ‘I seem to recall that we destroyed you the last time we met in the debating chamber,’ he said coolly.

  ‘How kind of you to remind us just before we re-enter the fray,’ said Illesy. ‘However, your sly attempt to disconcert will not succeed, because this time the subject is law, not theology. Bon is right: we will prevail.’

  ‘Bartholomew has visited Salerno, Nerli,’ said Lawrence quickly, before a quarrel could erupt. ‘He witnessed a number of dissections there that—’

  ‘I never saw any dissections,’ interrupted Nerli indignantly. ‘How dare you suggest I might! I am a lawyer, not an anatomist.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lawrence. ‘But I imagine you will find common acquaintances if you—’

  ‘No,’ said Nerli curtly. ‘I would never demean myself by associating with anyone who condoned such diabolical matters. We will share no mutual friends.’

  ‘I am sorry, Matthew,’ said Lawrence, as the Florentine stalked away. ‘I was not aware that he felt so negatively about dissection. It just goes to show that even those you think you know can surprise you sometimes. As you learned with Eyer just now.’

  At last, Michael indicated to Bartholomew that he was ready to put more questions to the men from Winwick Hall. Dutifully, the physician stood at his side to watch for telling reactions.

  ‘Matt and I were in your domain earlier,’ Michael began pleasantly. ‘To speak to your porter. Unfortunately, he bolted when he saw us. Why would that be, do you think?’

  ‘Why did you want Jekelyn?’ asked Illesy suspiciously. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Michael. ‘He was at the home of a notorious mercenary last night – the one who murdered my Junior Proctor.’

  ‘Perhaps he was drunk, and did not know what he was doing,’ suggested Bon, turning his milky eyes towards the monk’s voice. ‘He is a terrible sot, and we should never have hired him.’

  ‘No, you should not,’ agreed Michael. ‘And you will notify me the moment he reappears.’

  Illesy bristled. ‘You have no right to order us to—’

  ‘Your porter is implicated in the murder of a University proctor,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘So either you accede to my terms or I shall fine you for refusing to cooperate with an official investigation.’

  ‘Very well.’ Illesy capitulated with bad grace. ‘But I am sure he had nothing to do with Felbrigge’s death. His only crime will be a poor choice of friends.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Michael coldly. ‘He is a killer himself. He stabbed Fulbut.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Illesy. ‘However, even if you are right, all it means is that he has rid you of a dangerous assassin. Surely you will not punish him for that?’

  ‘Of course I will! We do not take justice into our own hands in Cambridge.’ Michael smiled without humour. ‘Incidentally, Fulbut took a while to die, and talked a great deal before breathing his last.’

  There was silence, and Bartholomew read unease in all four Winwick men. Illesy began to fiddle with his rings, Lawrence gulped, Bon paled, and Nerli hissed between his teeth.

  ‘It seems murder is not Jekelyn’s only crime,’ Michael went on. ‘We also have reason to believe that he set fire to St Clement’s Church – a blaze in which its vicar might have died.’

  ‘No!’ breathed Lawrence, shocked. ‘Jekelyn would never do such a wicked thing.’

  Nerli and Illesy exchanged a brief glance that suggested they were not so sure.

  ‘I agree,’ said Bon. ‘Jekelyn is…’ He trailed off when someone approached their group, and tilted his head in an effort to identify the footsteps. It was Potmoor with de Stannell at his heels.

  ‘Are you discussing Goodwyn’s transfer to Winwick Hall?’ asked the felon. ‘He tells me there is a misunderstanding with his fees, so I hope it can be resolved.’

  ‘It is not a misunderstanding,’ countered de Stannell. ‘Michaelhouse took the lad’s money, but now refuses to give it back. It is brazen theft.’

  ‘Goodwyn,’ sighed Michael. ‘What a sad case! The lad has a pox that eats the brain, and one cannot believe a word he says. Have you accepted him yet, Provost Illesy? If so, you might want to give him his own room, as Matt thinks his condition might be contagious.’

  ‘Heavens!’ gulped Illesy. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Michael regarded de Stannell kindly. ‘You are probably safe, but you might want to take a few precautions. Eat a pound of raisins every day, and abstain from meat for a month.’

  ‘I need not worry,’ declared Potmoor smugly, although the deputy’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I have God’s protection, which is much better than raisins.’

  He began to hold forth about his resurrection, and the Winwick men took the opportunity to drift away. Frustrated, Michael signalled to Langelee that the debate might as well start, muttering to Bartholomew that they were wasting their breath by trying to wring clues from the likes of Illesy, Bon, Nerli and Lawrence. They were lawyers, and it would be easier to lay hold of an eel.

  ‘Nerli is the main speaker today,’ announced the Master, once he had welcomed everyone and issued the unusual edict that the occasion would be in the vernacular, out of courtesy to those guests who had no Latin. ‘He will outline his thesis, Michaelhouse will rebut it, and Winwick will try to respond. Whichever side offers the best arguments will be deemed the victor.’

  ‘And what is your thesis today, Signor Nerli?’ asked Suttone pleasantly.

  ‘That the Bible lays out clear guidelines for the levying of taxes,’ replied the Florentine, in English that was a good deal less thickly accented than his Latin.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake!’ muttered Michael. ‘Could he not have chosen a more lively topic? I know nothing about the theology of taxation
. How am I supposed to defeat him?’

  ‘Cheat,’ Langelee murmured back. ‘And that is an order.’

  As there were not enough benches, the Michaelhouse Fellows were obliged to stand at the back of the hall. Bartholomew did not mind, as it gave him an opportunity to observe his suspects without them realising what he was doing. As far as he was concerned, there were only five: Nerli, Illesy, Holm, Potmoor and Hugo. He ignored the nagging voice which told him that perhaps Richard should also be included.

  He watched Nerli first, noting the man’s arrogant confidence. If the Florentine had poisoned Hemmysby, then he suffered no remorse about being in his victim’s home. Meanwhile, Holm and Hugo sat indecently close together, whispering and giggling like teenagers. Potmoor was in the front row, looking around him with so much interest that Bartholomew wondered whether he was assessing it for a future break-in. Illesy was staring at Nerli, but creases of concern in his smooth face suggested that his mind was not on his colleague’s monologue.

  ‘He spoke well,’ murmured Langelee, when Nerli eventually sat and Suttone rose to refute some of his points.

  Michael nodded. ‘His slight hesitation of manner says that he has not taken part in many of these occasions, but once he gains some experience, he will be formidable.’

  ‘He told me that he has been a scholar all his life,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much more experience does he need?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps debates do not take this form in Salerno.’

  Bartholomew was about to inform him that they did when Suttone began his analysis. The Carmelite was followed by Illesy, who spoke for some time without saying anything of substance.

  ‘He has a slippery tongue,’ murmured Michael. ‘I am not surprised he kept Potmoor out of trouble for so long.’

  Bartholomew was startled when Langelee called on him to take the floor. He was not a lawyer or a theologian, and had expected to be spared. Then he saw that Clippesby had Ethel on his head, and understood the Master’s reluctance to rely on the Dominican to make a good impression. He stepped on to the dais, and managed to acquit himself adequately. Edith and Julitta clapped when he had finished, which put Holm in a jealous sulk.