‘Oh, Christ!’ blurted Hardwell, looking along the serried ranks in alarm. ‘I think they are going to sing.’
He hurtled towards the back gate, and his sudden, agitated flight caused others to follow.
‘Sing,’ mused Isnard. ‘Now there is an idea.’
‘Especially as the University’s opening ceremony has been cancelled,’ added Verius. ‘It would be a shame not to warble something today, after all our rehearsals.’
There was a lot of preparatory throat-clearing, and they launched into something that might or might not have been Michael’s newly composed Conductus. The trickle of men hurrying to the gate became a flood, particularly when it became clear that Winwick would not be providing much in the way of pillage. Meanwhile, the singing grew steadily louder, until it drowned out both the wind and the settling remains of the ruined hall.
‘I thought you were leaving,’ shouted Bartholomew to his nephew.
Richard smiled. ‘I was, but it occurred to me that you might need help, so I fetched these fellows, along with a lot of your patients. You have some very ruffianly clients, you know. It is hardly respectable.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I would not change them for the world.’
EPILOGUE
It was a subdued, sombre congregation that trooped into St Mary the Great for a belated beginning of term ceremony two days later. Most matriculands had slipped away the day before, evidently of the opinion that life would be dull if they were obliged to spend their time studying.
The occasion began with a mighty explosion of sound as the choir sang the opening anthem. Michael waved his arms frantically to remind them that it was meant to be pianissimo, but to no avail. Through the open door, Bartholomew saw a horse rear and a dog run away with its tail between its legs. Pleased with their performance, the singers went for an unsolicited encore.
Before they could do it again, Chancellor Tynkell embarked on a short speech that made no mention of Winwick Hall, and instructed each foundation to bring forward any student who wanted to matriculate. This they did in strict order of foundation, with Peterhouse, King’s Hall and Michaelhouse first, followed by the other Colleges. The hostels were next, with some jostling among those that had only come into being in the last month. There were more than there had ever been before, and the principals of some looked little older than their charges.
As the matriculands gave their names to Tynkell’s clerks, Verius sang – saving the Senior Proctor’s life had earned him a pardon for his role in the troubles. The sweet beauty of his voice did much to ease the lingering antagonism caused by the disagreements over precedence, and Michael’s expression grew smug when he saw the startled pleasure on his colleagues’ faces.
A number of townsfolk were in the congregation, including Sheriff Tulyet, who had returned home the previous evening. Cambridge already felt safer with him in residence. The two surviving Fellows of Winwick Hall stood together – Lawrence with a bandaged head, and Nerli with his arm in a sling. The few Winwick students with a genuine desire to study had been offered places in other foundations, but most had left the town without a backward glance.
‘Did you hear that the Guild of Saints will be dissolved today, Matt?’ whispered Michael. ‘Its name is tainted now, and it has no money anyway. Eyer left it all his worldly goods, but these only just covered its outstanding debts. Its whole fortune was either gobbled up by Winwick Hall or was stolen by Holm and Julitta when they made their escape.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What?’
‘The moment we left, Julitta told Edith that she was no longer needed, released Holm from the cellar, grabbed everything she could carry – including the Guild’s remaining funds – and fled. You did not believe Holm’s taunting claims in their house, but he was actually telling the truth.’
‘I know.’ Bartholomew was unable to keep the hurt from his voice. He had doggedly maintained Julitta’s innocence for as long as he could, but as the evidence against her had mounted, even he had been forced to admit that she had played him for a fool, probably from the first time he had set eyes on her.
‘I should have seen it weeks ago,’ Michael went on. ‘Someone clever ordered Holm to befriend Hugo – watching Potmoor through his son is not something our silly surgeon would have thought of doing himself. Moreover, Julitta also asked about my investigations every time we met. I thought it was polite interest, but she was actually fishing for information.’
‘She questioned me, too,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘I probably did all manner of harm by confiding in her.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Michael kindly. ‘We spent most of the time floundering around in the dark, so you had very little of value to pass on. And she deceived everyone, even me, so do not feel too badly about it. Incidentally, she left you a letter.’
He held out a folded piece of parchment with Julitta’s neat roundhand on the front – letters Bartholomew himself had taught her to make. Then he noticed that the seal had been broken.
‘It tries to justify what she did,’ said Michael. ‘And promises you a warm welcome if you ever visit Paris. I should avoid the place if I were you.’
‘How does she justify it?’ Bartholomew felt no compunction to read the missive himself, and did not care that Michael had opened something that was very clearly marked ‘private’.
‘By saying that she and Holm aimed to help the University by spying for Bon and urging the Guild to divert its charity to our newest College. She denies making more than ten marks from the arrangement, although Bon’s records suggest otherwise. He paid a fortune for her help.’
‘She was not always a bad person,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Earlier this year, she was generous, good and gentle with the wounded soldiers at the castle.’
‘That was to impress Holm, to ensure he married her. Once she had him, she reverted to her true self – ruthless, scheming and greedy, just like her father.’
Bartholomew recalled her sweet face, and the intimate evenings they had spent together when Holm had been out. It was difficult to accept that it had all been part of a grubby plan to draw him into her confidence and allow her to monitor the Senior Proctor.
‘She told some shocking lies,’ the monk went on. ‘Holm was never burgled; Lawrence never had a serious row with Hemmysby – a tale spread by her puppet husband; Nerli never practised swordplay with Potmoor; Lawrence’s incompetence did not kill the Queen and nor did he poach patients, introduce Holm to Hugo, or exert influence over Potmoor. Moreover, she encouraged Weasenham to gossip about Tulyet’s “execution”, rather than ordering him to desist as she claimed…’
‘Yes, Clippesby told me. He also says it was her and Holm who came to steal the Stanton Hutch from Michaelhouse. He recognised the cloaks they wore, which were left behind in the race to escape. Which means that they also stole William’s tract…’
‘Of course! It had to be someone who knew where Langelee kept the key to the cellar. Did she worm the information out of you?’
Bartholomew nodded miserably. ‘Ylaria and Verius knew what sort of person she was. They guessed exactly why she had appeared to “help” with his thumb, and we should have listened.’
‘And her motive was money and power, as promised by Bon. Yet I doubt Hemmysby knew that she and Holm were the ones charged to invade us, although his suggestion to look in Winwick Hall for the culprit tells me that he might have suspected Bon.’
‘I cannot believe she gave him William’s tract,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘She must have known what he would do with it. I thought she harboured some affection for Michaelhouse – and for me. Yet she was willing to see us excommunicated for her ambition.’
‘Well, she is foiled on that front. Langelee found the work in Bon’s room and we burned it.’
‘But the damage has been done – relations between us and the Dominicans are damaged—’
‘Not so.’ Michael smirked. ‘I used Weasenham’s penchant for gossip to say that t
he essay was not by William at all, but by Bon. The Dominicans have apologised for thinking badly of us, and we are friends again. The matter is closed.’
‘Thank God! I like the Dominicans, and do not want them to be enemies.’
Michael nodded at the letter. ‘This contains a lot of claptrap about love, and how Julitta thinks Michaelhouse’s disgrace would have been good for you. In her eyes, the University is holding you back from reaching your full potential as a physician.’
Bartholomew grimaced. ‘She would not think that if she knew what I did to Hemmysby and the others in the name of justice – with the Senior Proctor’s connivance.’
‘Yes, – thank heavens you did not confide that little secret! Of course, the business with the tract was your fault. If you had not taught her to read, she would never have known that it was something worth stealing.’
‘Holm probably wishes she had stayed illiterate, too,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘It was because of her skill with letters that she found the loophole in her father’s will – the one that allows her to control the marital finances. I doubt he would stay with her if the money was his.’
‘No,’ agreed Michael, not mentioning that a letter informing the surgeon that Julitta had made a mistake in her interpretation was already on its way to Paris. It was revenge of sorts, as Holm would certainly act on it. ‘You do know she was only pretending to be stunned when you hit her? She sat up very quickly when you announced an intention to stay. She wanted you gone, so she could escape. She knew Bon’s plans were falling apart, and that flight was the only option.’
‘Founding a College should be a noble feat, yet so much evil has come from it – Felbrigge shot; Elvesmere, Knyt and Hemmysby poisoned with dormirella; Ratclyf given medicine that stopped his weak heart; relations damaged between University and town, perhaps irreparably; Illesy, de Stannell, Eyer and Potmoor killed at Winwick Hall…’
‘Along with Goodwyn, who was looting when it collapsed. He was paid to insinuate himself into Michaelhouse, you know. Or rather, he was told that if he enrolled, he would be rewarded ten times what he forked out in fees. The same happened in other Colleges, where young men had a remit to cause trouble, learn our secrets and spread discontent.’
‘Who told you that, Brother?’
‘Documents in Bon’s room. Richard was not the only one recruited to bring friends here – at least another dozen men did likewise. Losing his sight has turned Bon bitter and vengeful, because he thinks it encourages people to undervalue his intellect – which caused him to be overly devoted to the one College that was willing to accept him.’
‘He is wrong to blame our low opinion on his hypochyma. The truth is that he is just not a very good scholar, as evidenced by his dismal performance in two debates.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Michael. ‘And it is a pity he escaped.’
‘You still have not found him?’
‘Not yet. I shall send his description to all four corners of the kingdom and he will not stay free for long. He cannot – until he is caught, I dare not eat gifts of cakes, lest they are poisoned.’
‘A fine reason for wanting to snare a killer,’ said Bartholomew, although the remark made him smile. Then he became sombre again. ‘Marjory Starre said there would be a fierce gale, and that a good man would die. She was right.’
‘She was not,’ countered Michael. ‘No one who died on Tuesday was good, and there are often strong winds in October. There was nothing magical about her prediction.’
‘What about Potmoor? He was innocent of the burglaries, and after his resurr— after his bout of catalepsia, he did try to make amends for his past.’
‘It was too little, too late. Moreover, we might have solved the case a lot sooner if he had confessed to his affair with Olivia Knyt. Is she better, by the way? I heard you were called out to tend her last night.’
Bartholomew nodded, but said no more. Olivia’s first reaction on discovering that she was carrying her lover’s child had been to dose herself with bryony root and get rid of it, but then she had changed her mind. Unfortunately, the herb was still going about its business, and it had taken the combined skill of two midwives, Marjory Starre and Bartholomew himself, to reverse the process.
‘Then we could have stopped assuming that Potmoor was guilty of the burglaries,’ Michael went on when there was no reply. ‘And looked for the real culprit.’
‘Who was the real culprit? The minions Potmoor no longer needed after his brush with death, as de Stannell claimed?’
Michael nodded. ‘They stole a veritable fortune, although Bon’s records reveal that de Stannell kept a lot for himself. Doubtless Bon would have poisoned him in time. And Uyten, whom I interviewed at length last night. He is stunned to learn that his master was Bon, not Illesy. He really is a fool. As if the likes of him would ever be made a University Fellow!’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He will face trial, but will claim benefit of clergy, so will probably be exiled.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘No wonder this case was so difficult to solve. Bon had a grand plan, but all his helpmeets were in it for themselves.’
‘For money,’ nodded Michael. ‘Like Eyer. Or for prestige, like Uyten. Or for both, like Holm, Julitta and de Stannell – who rashly expected the College to be renamed after him.’
Bartholomew nodded to where John Winwick was talking to the Sheriff. ‘He is unwilling to concede defeat, and wants to try again.’
‘Yes. I have suggested he does it in Oxford.’
Bartholomew laughed.
‘I am serious. They pride themselves on their adaptability, so they can accommodate his impatience. However, we at Cambridge are unsuited to hurried decisions.’
‘Yet some good came out of all this. I learned that no one murdered Oswald, and Richard proved himself to be decent in the end.’
‘There is hope for him, I suppose. He goes home older and wiser, especially about his sire.’ Michael sniggered suddenly. ‘Did you know that Thelnetham wants to be reinstated at Michaelhouse? Langelee has refused, so our conclave will be a haven of peace once more.’
‘William will be pleased.’
‘There is something else that is good, too. We have discovered a new weapon in our battle against killers – dissection.’
‘Oh, no! My conscience will not let me do that again.’
‘Yes, it will,’ countered Michael. ‘Several bodies have been recovered from Winwick’s ruins, and we need to be sure that they are crushed looters, not hapless souls poisoned by Bon. There is a great deal of work for you once this ceremony is over.’
Bartholomew’s reply was drowned out by the choir, beginning the jubilant anthem that marked the end of the ceremony, but this time Michael made no effort to quieten them. He shrugged and pointed to his ears when the physician tried to make himself heard, then turned towards his singers with a complacent smile. He could not have timed their interruption better himself.
Bon had not fled when Winwick Hall and all his dreams had collapsed. He had hidden in the rubble, feeling anger burn within him. He would repay those who had thwarted his plans, and when they were dead he would rebuild his College better, bigger and stronger than ever. He was there now, listening to the choir bellow the closing anthem. He pushed the din from his mind, and thought about the task that lay ahead.
He did not need good eyesight to tell him that the hall was past saving, and that the tottering remains would have to be demolished in order to start afresh. He would not make the same mistakes again, though. His new College would be raised slowly and painstakingly, and it would stand for centuries, outlasting Peterhouse, Gonville, Clare, Trinity Hall and all the other foundations that had called it an upstart.
He groped his way to the cellar, the cool vaulted chamber below the hall that should have been full of ale, wine and food for the coming term. When he thought about all he had lost, his temper boiled again, and he thumped a wooden post with all the force he could muster, wishing it were
Michael, Illesy, Lawrence, Nerli or Bartholomew instead.
But for once his poor vision worked against him, and he did not know that the strut was one that had been inserted to shore up the roof until it could be dismantled safely. Bon’s blow knocked it from its moorings, and it crashed to the floor. For a second nothing happened, then the ceiling caved in. It happened so quickly that Bon was barely aware of it. One moment he was standing in silent fury, and the next he was buried under tons of masonry.
There was only one witness to his death. Clippesby had been appalled by the loss of life at Winwick Hall, and had gone there to pray for the souls of the dead. Unnoticed, he watched Bon slouch to the cellar, and his keen ears caught the bitter curses hissed into the darkness. Then he heard Bon strike the post, and knew from the sound of the resulting collapse that the man would not be coming out again. He bowed his head, and added another name to his prayers.
Winwick Hall’s desirable location on the High Street meant it was not long before the site was sold. One parcel of land was purchased by Nerli, who decided to settle in Cambridge once Bartholomew had made it clear that he would not try to discuss mutual acquaintances at Salerno. Nerli had been appalled when the well-intentioned Lawrence had tried to initiate the conversation, sure he was going to be exposed as an imposter, as not only had he never been to the place from which he claimed his impressive string of degrees, but he had no qualifications whatsoever. He had read widely, though, and knew he was more than a match for more formally trained minds.
His land contained the collapsed cellar, but the rubble was nicely packed, so he used it as the foundation for his new home, a pretty cottage that he named Knyt Hostel, in honour of the murdered Secretary of the Guild of Saints. He only ever took three students at a time, but he trained them with such meticulous diligence that kings and bishops clamoured to hire them when they graduated. He ran Knyt Hostel for the next six decades, and was much mourned when he died just short of his hundredth birthday.
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 43
