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

  ‘I do not see why I should labour like a peasant,’ grumbled Goodwyn. ‘There are more than enough low types here for that, and I…’

  He faltered when he saw the dark expression on his teacher’s face, and promptly turned his attention to his duties. Richard laughed uproariously at the exchange, although there was a brittle quality to his guffaws that made them sound more mocking than amused.

  At last the town’s frenzied labours paid off, and someone called out the welcome news that the fire was out. People flexed aching arms and shoulders, congratulating each other on their efforts. But all asked the same question: how had it started?

  ‘I expect it was that drunken vicar,’ said Eyer. ‘He must have knocked over a candle.’

  ‘Or Potmoor,’ suggested Goodwyn. ‘Look at him – you can see from here that he is disappointed the church is saved. He is a killer and a thief, and arson is nothing to him.’

  ‘Potmoor is a thief,’ whispered Hemmysby to Bartholomew. ‘But I doubt he stole our hutch, so I hope Michael does not accuse him of it. It will be someone else. Winwick Hall, perhaps.’

  ‘You said that earlier,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘But you had no evidence.’

  ‘And I have none now. Yet I sense that all will turn out well in the end.’ Hemmysby laughed suddenly. ‘Lord! I sound as credulous as Cynric!’

  ‘Who is that fellow lurking at the back of the church?’ asked Goodwyn, pointing with a bony finger. ‘One of Potmoor’s henchmen? He looks very suspicious.’

  ‘That is Nicholas Fulbut,’ supplied Richard. ‘He is a mercenary, and he does sell his services to Potmoor on occasion. De Stannell told me that he is wanted for all manner of crimes.’

  ‘Then have you told de Stannell that he is here?’ asked Hemmysby archly. ‘Or, as I am sure you are a model citizen with a sense of duty and justice, why have you not arrested him yourself?’

  ‘Oh, he has disappeared now,’ said Richard. ‘What a pity.’

  ‘A pity indeed,’ murmured Hemmysby coolly.

  Rudely, Richard turned his back on the priest and addressed his cronies. ‘I wonder why Knyt did not attend the Guild meeting today. He would not have let the Michaelhouse Choir sing next week. De Stannell was like clay in Potmoor’s hands over the matter.’

  ‘Colic confines him to bed,’ explained Eyer. ‘His wife told me when she came to collect bryony root to make him a soothing tonic.’

  ‘I think I shall join Michael’s choir,’ said Goodwyn, grinning impishly at his classmates. ‘I understand a lack of musical talent is no barrier, and there is free ale afterwards.’

  ‘Then I shall inform him of your interest,’ said Hemmysby sweetly. ‘He is always looking for volunteers to help serve the food and drink, and I am sure you will not mind waiting on paupers.’

  When the bell in St Mary the Great chimed to announce that the Cambridge Debate was about to begin, most scholars hurried away. A number of matriculands lingered, though, eyeing a group of apprentices and clearly ready for a brawl. Michael dealt with the would-be students, but de Stannell was no better at exerting authority on unruly youths than he was at fighting fires, and the town lads continued to loiter. Unwilling to go far until they had dispersed, Michael went to inspect the church, picking his way up the aisle carefully, lest water or ashes should soil his best habit.

  ‘Have you spoken to Heyford?’ asked Bartholomew, following him inside and flapping at the smoke that still swirled. ‘To determine whether this is arson or accident?’

  Michael gave a disgusted snort. ‘He is in a drunken stupor, and is likely to remain that way for hours. His deacons told me that someone sent him a gift of exceptionally strong wine, which, as a usually abstemious person, he should not have touched. It seems he then knocked over a candle as he staggered around. Foolish man!’

  ‘The altar was blazing when I found him.’ Bartholomew coughed as he looked around. ‘Fortunately, the damage does not seem to be too severe.’

  ‘A bit of scrubbing and a new table, and all will be right again. I was unimpressed with de Stannell’s reaction to the crisis today. He did nothing to take command of the situation, preferring instead to curry favour with Potmoor.’

  Bartholomew started to describe his encounter with the felon in the guildhall, but Michael was not very interested, and cut across him with a lengthy account of his own efforts to identify the burglar who had visited so many of the University’s hostels and Colleges.

  ‘I know most people think Potmoor is the guilty party,’ he said. ‘And they may well be right. However, I feel obliged to investigate other suspects, too. I ordered my beadles to round up a few likely offenders, and I have passed the time since we last met with some very unsavoury villains.’

  ‘Did any confess to stealing our hutch?’

  ‘No. They all have alibis of one kind or another. My beadles will check them, but I imagine we shall be forced to let them go. I would have been spared the ordeal if Dick Tulyet were here – it is the Sheriff’s responsibility to interview these people, not mine. I asked de Stannell to oblige, but he said he is too busy. That man is a disgrace! Dick should never have left him in charge.’

  When they returned to the street the apprentices had gone, so they aimed for the town centre, Michael walking unusually briskly, so as not to miss more of the debate. They joined three other scholars who were also heading in that direction – Bon, clinging to Lawrence’s arm, and Doctor Rougham, the haughtiest and least likeable of the town’s four physicians.

  Rougham was Acting Master of Gonville Hall, and an inflexible traditionalist, which meant he and Bartholomew were diametrically opposed in their approach to medicine. Time had rendered their association a little less volatile, but relations were currently strained because Bartholomew had failed all Rougham’s students in their summer disputations. Rougham had still not forgiven him, although it should have been obvious even to his indignant eyes that his lads were well below par.

  ‘I am astonished to learn that Heyford was drunk,’ Rougham said. ‘Especially after his sermon on Sunday advocating abstinence.’

  ‘There is much to be said for abstinence,’ said Lawrence, eagerly seizing the opportunity for a medical discussion. ‘The great Maimonides says—’

  ‘It is for fools,’ interrupted Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘And I shall never practise it myself, or recommend it to my patients.’

  As neither Bartholomew nor Lawrence were inclined to tackle such a rigidly held conviction, the debate ended there and then.

  ‘How are your enquiries into Elvesmere’s death, Brother?’ asked Bon, stumbling over a rut and scowling at Lawrence for failing to warn him. ‘The murder has not affected the number of lads who want to study with us, thank God, but I still do not like it hanging over our heads.’

  ‘Then help me,’ said Michael. ‘Have you remembered anything that might point to his killer, no matter how silly or insignificant it may seem?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ replied Bon. ‘We had a visitor late on the night that Elvesmere died. Potmoor, whom I distinctly heard leaving the Provost’s Suite.’

  ‘Provost’s Suite,’ sneered Rougham under his breath. ‘Why not Master’s quarters, like everyone else? I cannot abide these pretensions of grandeur.’

  ‘Potmoor might be a fellow guildsman and generous with donations,’ Bon went on. ‘But he is a criminal, and I do not want him inside my College. Moreover, I am not sure Illesy is fit to be Provost if he keeps that sort of company.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with Potmoor,’ said Lawrence, more sharply than was his wont. ‘He is always perfectly gentlemanly when he summons me to remedy his headaches. However, this is a matter we should discuss later, Bon.’

  His pointed glance was wasted, for obvious reasons, but Bon caught the physician’s meaning from the warning tone in his voice and fell silent, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘We had better have a word with Potmoor,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It would be a tidy solution if he murdered Elvesmere.�
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  The physician nodded without enthusiasm, then turned to help Lawrence guide Bon across a particularly uneven section of the High Street. Lawrence thanked him, but Bon did not bother, and went on the offensive instead.

  ‘How are your enquiries into Felbrigge’s murder, Brother? I do not believe you ordered him shot, of course.’ The tone of his voice suggested otherwise. ‘But the rumours that you did are damaging the University – and what damages the University also harms Winwick. I do not want my College sullied by association. Perhaps you should consider tendering your resignation.’

  ‘Bow to the dictates of petty gossip?’ demanded Michael indignantly. ‘I most certainly shall not, especially as the only people who believe such ludicrous tales are fools and scoundrels.’

  Bon’s mouth tightened at the insult. ‘If your continued presence harms my College, I shall write to the King and demand your removal.’

  Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It usually takes years for new foundations to inspire such deep loyalty among its members, yet Winwick Hall has—’

  ‘Yes, I do love Winwick,’ interrupted Bon fiercely. ‘And do you know why? Because I have much to offer academia, but no one else would hire me. Our founder alone saw past my blindness and recognised my abilities, so the least I can do is give his College my complete devotion.’

  ‘Yet your ailment must be a disadvantage,’ mused Michael. ‘How do you study the texts you are obliged to teach?’

  ‘I learned them by rote before my eyes grew dim. And if I need to refresh my memory, I pay students to read to me. There is nothing wrong with my mind, Brother. It is just as sharp as yours.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Michael tended to the opinion that few colleagues were his intellectual equal.

  Bon bridled, and his voice turned even more acidic. ‘So what are you doing about Felbrigge’s killer? Or are you just grateful to the culprit for ridding you of an ambitious junior?’

  ‘Bon,’ murmured Lawrence warningly. ‘You shame us with these intemperate remarks.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ agreed Michael coolly. ‘However, since you ask, Felbrigge’s murder is solved. The culprit will be in my cells by the end of the day.’

  ‘Will he?’ blurted Lawrence. He sounded alarmed, and Bartholomew wondered why. ‘Oh, look! We are at Eyer’s shop. I think I had better buy a remedy for queasiness, as I feel most unwell.’

  ‘He must be nervous about the debate,’ said Rougham, watching him dart inside. ‘He is unused to public speaking.’

  ‘Will you be taking part, Rougham?’ asked Bon.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Rougham scathingly. ‘Do I look like a friar or a monk to you?’

  Bon’s expression was cool. ‘You do not look like anything to me. I am blind, if you recall.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rougham uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you are.’

  Leaving the Gonville man to make obsequious apologies, all of which were received with icy disdain, Bartholomew and Michael continued alone.

  ‘Do you really know who killed Felbrigge, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes and no. I have the identity of the archer – Cynric heard him bragging in the King’s Head last night. However, word is that he was hired by someone else, who is the real culprit in my opinion. The archer will talk once he is in my cells. I have never met a mercenary yet who was prepared to sacrifice himself for his paymaster.’

  ‘A mercenary?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of how Richard had described the man they had seen lurking behind St Clement’s. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Nick Fulbut. My beadles are hunting him as we speak.’

  Bartholomew stopped walking. ‘He was watching the fire just now.’ He repeated what Richard had told him, omitting the uncomfortable truth that his nephew had made no attempt to report the matter to the authorities, regardless of the fact that he knew Fulbut was a wanted man.

  Michael hurried back as fast as his legs would carry him, Bartholomew at his heels, but neither scholar was surprised to discover that their quarry was no longer there. The monk instructed two beadles to monitor the church lest the archer reappeared, then he and Bartholomew turned towards St Mary the Great again.

  ‘The news that Fulbut works for Potmoor is disturbing,’ said Michael. ‘Why would Potmoor want my Junior Proctor dead? And if Fulbut was lurking near the burning church, do you think he gave Heyford the strong wine and lit the fire? On Potmoor’s orders?’

  ‘I thought you said it was an accident. Besides, what can Potmoor have against Heyford?’

  ‘A lot of vicious sermons that accuse him of all manner of crimes. I have warned Heyford to curb his tongue, but he is not a man to listen to sound counsel.’

  Despite his intention to stay away, Bartholomew did attend some of the debate. He heard Michael speak with his usual incisive eloquence, which had even friars nodding their appreciation. After Michael came Ratclyf, whose language was so flowery that it was difficult to distil any meaning from it, and Bon, who was uninspired and unoriginal. Hemmysby was next, and demolished the Winwick men with an intellectual agility that earned him a standing ovation.

  ‘Michaelhouse is doing well,’ murmured Lawrence, standing at Bartholomew’s side. ‘But I fear Winwick’s entry into public disputation has been less than distinguished, and I doubt my contribution will redeem us. I am too nervous to shine.’

  ‘Address your remarks to your friends, and do not look at anyone else,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Speak slowly, clearly and loudly, and ignore any jeers.’

  Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Thank you. Oh, Lord! The Chancellor is waving to me – it is my turn to speak. Into the valley of the shadow of Death…’

  He was far too diffident for the boisterous arena of the Cambridge Debate, and had barely finished his opening remarks before the hecklers weighed in. Tynkell should have silenced them, but he was a meek man himself, and his timid exhortations were ignored. When he saw the discussion had reached the point where no one was going to be allowed to finish a sentence, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse to work on his lectures.

  He made reasonable progress, and by evening he knew he could manage the first week with something approaching competence. Of course, that still left the rest of term, and he wondered whether he would be reduced to using last year’s material. Other masters did it, but he considered it a lazy habit and wanted to avoid it if possible.

  After a miserable supper of stale bread smeared with some sort of brown paste, washed down with a liquid Agatha claimed was broth but that might equally well have been something in which she had washed the pots, he went to visit Edith. She was in angry tears following another spat with Richard over the documents she had been examining, but her seamstresses were providing fierce female solidarity, and Bartholomew sensed that his presence was an unwanted intrusion. He returned to Michaelhouse, and went to the conclave, where there was a lamp that was significantly better for reading than the flickering tallow candle in his own room.

  ‘I understand Potmoor paid you a princely sum today,’ said Langelee, watching him set scrolls, ink and pen on the table. He held out his hand. ‘It may stave off disaster for a few days.’

  ‘Who told you?’ asked Bartholomew resentfully. He had intended to replenish his medical supplies with the money – a matter of urgency now that there was no stipend to come. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Surgeon Holm.’ Langelee snatched the purse eagerly. ‘He was aiming to make trouble for you, so I lied and told him I already knew. That took the wind out of the bastard’s sails. I do not blame you for making a cuckold of the fellow. Julitta deserves a proper man.’

  ‘Let him keep a few coins for medicine, Master,’ said Hemmysby, watching Langelee pocket the lot. ‘I should not like to think of the poor suffering as a result of our temporary penury.’

  ‘It is not temporary,’ growled Langelee. ‘It is permanent. Even if Michael does manage to lay hold of the culprit, the money will have been spent by now.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Hemmysby.
‘It is an enormous amount, far too large to dispose of without attracting attention. I am sure we shall have most of it back, if not all.’

  No one else shared his optimism, but they did not argue about it for long, preferring instead to discuss how best to use Potmoor’s money. While they debated, Bartholomew struggled to work. The lamp had been turned low to save fuel, and the cheap oil smoked badly. It made his head ache, but he persisted anyway, and was still reading when Cynric arrived with a summons.

  ‘You are needed at John Knyt’s house, boy,’ the book-bearer announced. ‘You know – the Secretary of the Guild of Saints.’

  ‘I am?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why? He is Rougham’s patient.’

  ‘Rougham is unavailable, apparently. But Knyt lives on the Chesterton road, which is in Potmoor’s domain, so I had better go with you.’

  Bartholomew was glad to escape from the reeking lantern. He hurried across the yard to collect his cloak, but as he approached his storeroom he detected a terrible smell emanating from within. He opened the door to see all his students crammed inside, amid a chaos of dirty flasks, broken pots and careless spillages. The far wall was barely visible through a thick fug of fumes, which was impressive, given the chamber’s modest size.

  ‘We are experimenting,’ explained Aungel brightly. ‘It was Goodwyn’s idea. We are testing what happens when you add different things to boiling urine. We aim to find one that explodes.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, perplexed. ‘What use would such knowledge be?’

  ‘All knowledge is useful,’ declared Goodwyn loftily. ‘Aristotle said so.’

  Bartholomew was sure the philosopher had said no such thing. ‘I sincerely hope you did not use any of my supplies to test this ridiculous theory. I need them for patients.’