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

by Susanna Gregory

  Bon made some stumbling, uncertain points that Michael refuted with his usual incisive logic, and then it was Lawrence’s turn – a good-natured but rambling discourse that was difficult to follow. Langelee had saved the best for last. Thelnetham was an eloquent and witty orator, and some of his remarks had everyone roaring with laughter, no mean feat given the dry subject matter. The Gilbertine dismissed Lawrence with a few well-chosen words, destroyed Illesy in a sentence, picked Bon up on a few points that Michael had missed, then neatly demolished Nerli.

  There was no need for Langelee to announce a winner, because it was obvious. The Winwick Fellows nodded curt acknowledgement of the applause that followed the Master’s concluding remarks, and prepared to leave.

  ‘I am sorry you felt the need to embarrass us a second time,’ said Bon coldly, when the Michaelhouse men went to thank them for coming. ‘We are still novices, and you might have made allowances accordingly.’

  ‘Moreover, I am not sure that all Thelnetham’s points were legitimate,’ added Nerli. ‘I shall check his references when I get home, and will be disappointed if he fabricated them.’

  ‘Of course he did not fabricate them,’ declared Langelee, conveniently forgetting that he had charged his Fellows to cheat. ‘We are simply more masterly than you in the debating chamber.’

  ‘For now,’ said Bon sulkily. ‘But that will change – unlike your status as inferior College. I may not be able to see your hall, but I warrant it is not as fine as ours. And we have more students.’

  ‘Come,’ said Lawrence, tugging on his arm before he could add more. ‘Our lads are meant to be reading Gratian’s Decretum, but they are a lively horde, and I have a feeling we shall find them doing something else. Thank you for your hospitality, Langelee. We enjoyed ourselves very much.’

  With a stiff bow, Illesy swept from the hall, his Fellows at his heels. Most guildsmen followed with relief, having been extremely bored. Bartholomew went to speak to Edith, who confessed miserably that she did not want to go home in case Richard was there. She held a book, and twisted it agitatedly in her hands as she spoke. It had a gold-leaf cover, and was clearly valuable. Puzzled, Bartholomew took it from her. Inside were drawings of exotic beasts.

  ‘Clippesby asked me to look after it,’ she explained. ‘Ethel wants to read it, apparently, but he is afraid her beak will damage the binding. I assume he refers to the chicken and not a person? It is sometimes difficult to be sure with him.’

  ‘When did he give it to you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

  ‘Just now.’ Edith frowned at the urgency in his voice. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes! I suspect this is the tome that Thelnetham left as a pledge in the Stanton Hutch.’

  Like many people, the Gilbertine’s ears were attuned to hearing his name, even across a large room. Keen to know what was being said about him, he sailed over.

  ‘My bestiary!’ he cried, snatching it to clutch against his breast. His delighted shriek brought the other Fellows clustering around. ‘Thank God! I shall not ask how you came by it, Matthew – I am just glad to have it back. Now I can leave this accursed place with all that is mine.’

  ‘You will have to wait for another College to accept you first,’ said Langelee. ‘And—’

  ‘One has,’ interrupted Thelnetham. ‘Bon has just offered me a Fellowship at Winwick Hall. He was impressed by my performance today, and says I am exactly the kind of man he needs. So I resign from this house of thieves, fools and lunatics, and good riddance to you all!’

  ‘You cannot go to Winwick!’ cried Langelee, dismayed at the notion of losing his best disputant. He flailed around for a reason that would convince. ‘You told us that its hall has been raised too quickly, and sways in the wind. You said it would make you sick if—’

  ‘I have changed my mind. And now, if you will excuse me, I am going to pack.’

  With mixed emotions, the other Fellows watched him flounce away. His acerbic tongue and haughty manners were a trial, but he was a gifted teacher, and he certainly raised Michaelhouse’s academic standing. They would miss him, no matter what William might claim to the contrary.

  Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the Gilbertine’s retreating form. The return of the bestiary answered a lot of questions, and he now knew exactly where the Stanton Hutch was, and who had put it there. ‘Where is Clippesby?’ he asked.

  ‘In the henhouse, I expect,’ replied Langelee, after a quick glance around established that the Dominican was no longer in the hall. ‘He spends all his time there these days, except when I roust him out to attend his duties. However, I wish I had left him alone today. He should not have attended the debate with a chicken on his head.’

  ‘The Stanton Hutch is in there,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We thought from the start that the culprit was someone in College, and he – citing Ethel as his source – has been oddly insistent that our money will be returned. He took it, then left the cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, probably to ease our minds.’

  ‘He might be a lunatic, but he is not a thief,’ said Michael, shocked. ‘He would never steal from us or anyone else. And never put us through such torment, either.’

  ‘Well, there is only one way to find out,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, stay here and ensure that our remaining guests do not run off with the tablecloths. Bartholomew and Michael, come with me.’

  He led the way to the orchard at a rapid clip, and began to bawl for the Dominican as he neared the coop. Clippesby’s muted reply could be heard within. As he declined to come out, Bartholomew was obliged to crawl in after him.

  ‘Oh, John,’ he said sadly, when he saw the missing chest against the back wall, partly covered in straw and with Ethel preening on top of it. ‘What have you done?’

  Clippesby did not answer, and only watched as Bartholomew pulled the hutch outside, where Langelee flung open the lid and pawed through it. When the Dominican finally emerged, Bartholomew was appalled by the change in him. He was thin, and his face was grey with strain.

  ‘It is all here,’ said Langelee in relief. ‘Every penny. We are saved.’ He rounded on Clippesby. ‘But you owe us an explanation.’

  ‘I brought it here, as it was the safest place I could think of,’ replied Clippesby. ‘And I have stayed with it as often as I can. So has Ethel. But the damp was beginning to damage Thelnetham’s bestiary, so I took it out and gave it to Edith to mind.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Langelee, stunned. ‘You are not a thief. And please do not say Ethel did it.’

  ‘Do not be silly, Master,’ said Clippesby irritably. ‘She could not possibly lift something this heavy. I took it from the cellar because a thief did intend to make off with it. He has been burgling other Colleges with great success. You must have heard about him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Langelee, struggling for patience. ‘But how did you know he wanted our hutch?’

  ‘Because Hemmysby told me. It was his idea to “steal” it and put it somewhere else. He made me promise not to tell anyone, and the hens said—’

  ‘Hemmysby told you?’ interrupted Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Clippesby. ‘He overheard some rats talking at a meeting of the Guild of Saints. They were discussing a plan to filch the Stanton Hutch from our cellar.’

  ‘I imagine he did hear rats,’ said Langelee wryly. ‘But human ones, not rodents.’

  Clippesby frowned. ‘He was using the word as a term of abuse? He did not mean animals?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘Are you saying that the people responsible for all these burglaries are guildsmen?’

  ‘Well, Hemmysby referred to the ones who aimed to go after us as “the rats in the Guild”. He was determined that they would not have our property, and asked me to help him thwart them. And we did: Ethel saw them invade our College on Friday, and leave empty-handed and furious. Poor Hemmysby was dead by then, of course, so never knew that his precautions had paid off.’

  ‘What did thes
e villains look like?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Ethel could not tell, because they kept their faces hidden. All she can say is that one was bigger than the other, and both were well dressed.’

  Langelee shook his head in bewilderment at the revelations. ‘So why were the deeds and the Stanton Cup in Hemmysby’s quarters? Bartholomew thinks you put them there.’

  Clippesby hung his head. ‘I could not bear your distress, so I took them from the chest, and was going to ask Hemmysby to return them to you while we kept the coins hidden until the danger was past. But he died and you ransacked his room…’

  ‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Because he heard the thieves plotting and so was in a position to expose them?’

  ‘He could not expose them because he did not see their faces,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘That was the problem.’

  ‘Then was he poisoned because they knew he had listened in on one of their discussions?’ pressed Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Clippesby wretchedly. ‘I have thought of little else for days.’

  ‘Why did he not tell me his suspicions?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I am not exactly a novice in thwarting criminals.’

  ‘Because you always discuss such matters with the Fellows,’ explained Clippesby. ‘And he was afraid that William or Thelnetham would blurt out the secret in one of their stupid rows. He also thought that I could find a more secure hiding place than anyone else.’

  ‘You have,’ conceded Langelee grudgingly. ‘I cannot imagine any thief searching a hencoop.’

  ‘Yet I do not think they left Michaelhouse empty-handed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They would have had to go through the kitchen to reach the cellar, and what was lying on the kitchen table on Friday? William’s tract, left there by Suttone for Agatha to burn on the fire. They must have snagged it on their way out, in revenge for being foiled over the hutch.’

  ‘Which means that the thieves and the blackmailers are one and the same, just as we thought,’ surmised Michael. ‘And almost certainly the poisoners, too.’

  Langelee hefted the hutch on to his shoulder. ‘I shall look after this now. However, I want all the Fellows – except Thelnetham, of course – available at midnight tonight.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.

  ‘Because instead of fifty marks behind this tomb, these damned rogues are going to find some very angry Michaelhouse men.’

  While Michael disappeared to follow some leads he claimed to have gleaned from interviewing the College’s guests that day, Bartholomew escorted Edith home to Milne Street, where both were relieved to find that Richard and Goodwyn were out. With a weary sigh, she summoned Zachary Steward, and opened the box containing her husband’s documents.

  ‘She is finding more evidence of Master Stanmore’s trickery now we are nearing the bottom,’ Zachary confided, watching her. ‘Obviously, he did not have time to dig this deep when he set about destroying what he did not want his family to see.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘How do you know—’

  ‘I was his right-hand man for fifteen years. He did very little without my knowledge, and I am amazed that he managed to wipe so much clean before he passed away. I noticed the tang of burning around him several times during his last few days, but it never occurred to me that he was destroying evidence until this week.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘If you are right, then it means he knew he was going to die, and took steps to put his affairs in order first. To protect his reputation.’

  Zachary nodded towards Edith. ‘To protect her. You already knew he was not always ethical, and he did not care about anyone else, except perhaps Richard. But you are right: I think he did know his end was near, although I have no idea how.’

  The revelation troubled Bartholomew, as did the notion that the discoveries Edith had made were probably slight compared to what Oswald had managed to conceal. He watched the pair work for a moment, then took his leave, loath to be a witness when she found something else that would upset her.

  He hesitated once he was outside, not sure where to go. He did not want to return to College, where all the talk in the conclave would be about Thelnetham’s defection, Clippesby’s antics and the blackmailers, and he had no patients needing attention. He found himself walking towards the High Street, feeling a sudden need for the haven of Eyer’s shop. He arrived to find the apothecary preparing a salve for Bon, steeping ragwort and rose petals in a bowl of water. Eyer’s welcoming smile was strained; clearly, he had not forgotten what had transpired earlier.

  ‘May I have some of that for Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked, nodding towards the dish. ‘Someone threw sand in his eyes.’

  ‘At a camp-ball practice? I do not know why that game is legal. It nearly always ends with someone being hurt.’

  ‘I think that is why Langelee likes it.’ Bartholomew sat down and helped himself to a stick of liquorice root. He could not remember the last time he had eaten a decent meal, and its earthy flavour reminded him that he was hungry. ‘It caters to the innate soldier in him.’

  ‘Did you mean what you said in Michaelhouse?’ blurted Eyer. ‘You will still use my services, even though you now know me as a disgraced physician?’

  ‘I know you as a good apothecary – which is all that matters, as far as I am concerned. And I shall say so to Rougham and Meryfeld if they ask.’

  Eyer grasped Bartholomew’s shoulder in gratitude. Neither spoke for a while, and they sat in companionable silence, Bartholomew relaxing after his fraught day and Eyer concentrating on his salve. Eventually, the apothecary began to confide details of the Oxford debacle, and Bartholomew felt the reserve that had existed between them begin to lift. He was sorry the matter had not come to light sooner, as it would have eliminated weeks of unnecessary wariness.

  ‘Yet perhaps it is as well I did not become a scholar,’ Eyer concluded ruefully. ‘I barely understood a word of that debate, and the whole affair was unconscionably dull. But you look tired and sad, my friend. Would you care for a bowl of frog and bean soup? It is very nutritious.’

  Bartholomew accepted, and was surprised to find it reasonably palatable, although he declined to gnaw on the bones at the bottom, as the apothecary encouraged him to do.

  Alone in his storeroom later, he tried to work on his lectures for the third week of term, but his thoughts kept returning to his worries. He tried to push them to the back of his mind, but he knew Galen’s De elementis too well for it to hold his attention, and he was eventually forced to concede that he was wasting his time.

  Idly, he picked up the scroll that Lawrence had lent him. He did not think he would be able to concentrate on it any more than he had his work, but Lawrence had an easy style, and he soon became engrossed. He had almost finished, when something made him frown. Lawrence described a condition known in the North Country as Pig Ear, defined as a thickening of the visible part of the ear following a blow or other trauma. Langelee was beginning to show signs of it from his love of camp-ball, but it was far more pronounced in Uyten, who had earned it from his fondness for brawling.

  Something was scratching at the back of Bartholomew’s mind, and he knew it was important. It was to do with Fulbut’s dying words, when the mercenary had talked in his distinctive brogue about the man who had hired him to shoot Felbrigge – someone who had had a ‘big year’. Understanding came in a flash. Fulbut had not been saying ‘big year’ but ‘pig ear’. He had been referring to Uyten!

  Flushed with triumph, Bartholomew raced up the stairs to Michael’s room, only to be told that the monk was out on patrol with Meadowman. He left the College at a run. On the dark streets, beadles were out in force, along with noisy bands of matriculands and apprentices, although troops from the castle were conspicuous by their absence.

  ‘De Stannell has recalled them all,’ said Michael, tight-lipped with fury when the physician finally caught up with him. ‘He says the trouble is of our making, so we must resolve it ourse
lves.’

  ‘The apprentices are not ours. Nor is that horde from the King’s Head. But never mind them, Brother. I think I know the identity of the killer.’ Excitedly, Bartholomew told the monk what he had read in Lawrence’s scroll.

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘Do you think Lawrence lent you that text with the specific intention of leading you astray – to shift blame away from himself?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Bartholomew was disappointed by the monk’s response. ‘He could not know I would read it today. Or at all, for that matter. It would be an extraordinarily elaborate ruse.’

  ‘But why would Uyten poison all these people?’

  ‘You know why! Felbrigge was telling you just before he was shot that he had put measures in place to control Winwick Hall. Obviously, Uyten does not want his College regulated by guildsmen. He killed Felbrigge first, then dispatched Hemmysby, Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt to ensure that they could not put these safeguards into force either.’

  ‘But Elvesmere and Ratclyf were Winwick men. They were unlikely to support their College being manipulated by an external authority, and would have been in Uyten’s side.’

  Bartholomew shrugged, unwilling to admit that Michael had a point. ‘Perhaps he felt they could not be trusted.’

  ‘And what about Oswald?’ pressed Michael. ‘I sincerely doubt he was interested in managing Winwick. He always kept out of University affairs, in deference to you.’

  ‘He founded the Guild to help the poor,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He would not have wanted its funds diverted to a wealthy College. And if Uyten did kill him, I want him brought to justice. For Edith’s sake.’

  ‘Very well,’ sighed Michael. ‘We shall tackle Uyten in the morning.’

  ‘Why not now?’