Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 12

  ‘No, we did not enjoy yesterday’s debate,’ snapped Bon, turning his milky eyes to the grand church next door, from which already came the sound of haranguing voices. ‘Michaelhouse savaged us cruelly, which was unkind, given that it was our first appearance.’

  ‘Your colleagues could have been gentler, Matthew,’ agreed Lawrence. ‘But Illesy and Nerli will salvage our reputation today, and the refreshments we shall provide afterwards will put us in everyone’s good graces. Ah, here comes Eyer with the poultice for your eyes, Bon.’

  ‘About time,’ muttered Bon savagely. ‘He is late again.’

  ‘I do not like to speak ill of a colleague,’ muttered Lawrence, as Bon stamped away on the apothecary’s arm, ‘but Bon really is a surly devil. He cannot open his mouth without saying something unpleasant, and living with him will be a sore trial, I fear.’

  Bartholomew suspected he was right.

  The physician arrived at the home of his first patient – a carpenter with a broken hand. Technically, this was Holm’s domain, but Bartholomew did not trust him, and regularly performed procedures that were traditionally the prerogative of surgeons. It was unorthodox, but he felt his patients deserved the best treatment available – which would not be forthcoming from an incompetent like Holm. He set the bones carefully, half listening as he was regaled with complaints about the number of matriculands who had arrived that year. The next two visits saw him bombarded with vitriol about the Guild of Saints, which had decreased the amount of charity it dispensed after Stanmore had died, and was expected to cut back even further now that Knyt was no longer in charge.

  ‘Father Heyford told us so in a sermon,’ confided a resentful rat-catcher. ‘The Guild used to support beggars and needy widows, but now it gives all its money to Winwick Hall.’

  Bartholomew broke away from paupers to make a visit to King’s Hall, where a scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic abilities were not as great as he thought they were, was suffering from a swollen knee. Dodenho had no complaints about the Guild of Saints or the number of matriculands, but he had a great deal to say about the unseemly speed with which Winwick Hall had come into being.

  ‘King’s Hall does not approve. It took us twenty years to go from a writ to a fully fledged College, but that place did it in a few days. It is not right, and there will be trouble.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Flex your knee now. Does that hurt?’

  ‘No. And all the while, the hostels laugh at us, because they think we are jealous. We are not: we are concerned. Did you know that John Winwick has not even sorted out its endowment yet, owing to some legal hiccup? Without it, his foundation is not really a College at all.’

  ‘I suppose not. What about this? Is that sore?’

  ‘No. Winwick Hall is beneath us in other ways, too. It does not have royal connections, like we do. Or the support of powerful churchmen, like Michaelhouse. It cannot even claim to have been founded by the town, like Bene’t. It is a cuckoo, and one established by a lawyer into the bargain.’

  ‘Stand up. Is there any pain when I push here?’

  ‘No. John Winwick might be Keeper of the Privy Seal, but he hails from common stock and his hall will attract common members. It is not to be borne.’ Dodenho jerked away suddenly. ‘God’s blood, Bartholomew! That hurt!’

  One call took the physician to the sparsely populated area north of the river, once a thriving community but wiped out in a few days by the plague that had swept across the country a decade before. Again, there was talk about the increasing miserliness of the Guild of Saints. On his way back, he passed St Clement’s, where Heyford was sweeping his porch.

  ‘No, I am not well,’ the vicar snapped in reply to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘I have a headache. Someone sent me a jug of very powerful wine yesterday, and it made me sick.’

  ‘You made yourself sick,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘No one forced you to drink it.’

  ‘I was thirsty,’ said Heyford tetchily. ‘As the villain doubtless knew I would be after I had given that long sermon about the wickedness of the Cambridge Debate.’

  ‘Why do you consider it wicked? Because the subject is apostolic poverty?’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous! Apostolic poverty is an excellent topic for discussion. No, my objections stem from the fact that I was not invited.’

  Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘Why would you be? You are not a member of the University.’

  ‘Of course not – I would never deign to join such a vile institution. But I still have a right to speak, and I have views about the greedy excesses of monks. And speaking of greedy monks, what is Brother Michael doing to catch the arsonist who tried to incinerate me?’

  ‘I thought it was an accident. A candle falling over while you were dr— while you slept.’

  ‘That is what everyone was meant to think, but the villain set light to my altar deliberately. He sent me that strong wine, too, to ensure that I would die in the resulting inferno. And why? Because I am honest and say what I think. Someone probably took offence at something I preached – a scholar from that diabolical Winwick Hall, perhaps. Or Potmoor.’

  Bartholomew did not grace the claim with a response, but it did not matter, because the vicar’s attention had already turned to something else that was not to his liking: a party of young men. All were older than the lads who usually applied to study at the University, and Bartholomew did not like the fact that they were armed with swords.

  ‘They are here for Winwick Hall,’ Heyford said darkly. ‘But if they are rejected – and not even that bloated abomination can accept them all – they will find themselves a master and establish a hostel. We shall be knee-deep in lawyers, and our poor town will be like a foretaste of Hell!’

  Bartholomew’s next port of call was a woman who lived next to St Clement’s. Ylaria Verius had been his patient for years, and was currently suffering from a persistent cough. Her husband – whom Bartholomew had met just before the fire the previous day – was a ditcher, but as he was too lazy to work he often supplemented his income with petty theft. Their meagre shack was gloomy, damp and cold, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Ylaria’s health improved slowly.

  ‘Your sister’s apprentices caused a terrible rumpus in the Cardinal’s Cap last night,’ said Ylaria, when the examination was over and they were waiting for water to boil for a soothing syrup. Normally, Bartholomew would have sent Verius with a note asking Eyer to prepare what was needed, but such luxury was impossible now he had no stipend.

  ‘I heard,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to admit what Aungel had claimed: that the new medical students had joined them there. ‘I will speak to her.’

  ‘Do not bother her with it,’ said Ylaria. ‘Corner your nephew instead. Tell him, Noll.’

  ‘Yes, tackle Richard,’ nodded Verius. ‘He was the one who led them inside.’

  Bartholomew was annoyed. Townsfolk never visited that particular establishment, as it was the acknowledged domain of scholars – although taverns were off limits to academics, the Cap was a discreet exception, as it was frequented by sober clerics who never caused trouble. Richard should have known better than to take apprentices there.

  ‘Some friars asked them to leave,’ Verius went on, ‘but Richard refused. Insults were traded and there was a brawl, although your nephew did not join in.’ The ditcher was clearly disdainful of such unmanly behaviour.

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

  ‘No, although Richard did his best to goad it into something worse. I know, because I was watching from the Angel Inn opposite. That Richard is an odious ba—’

  ‘Easy, Noll,’ interrupted Ylaria hastily. ‘Doctor Bartholomew may like him.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ averred Verius. ‘No one could be fond of a sly dog like him. He—’

  ‘There is a lot bad feeling towards the University at the moment, Doctor,’ said Ylaria quickly, cutting her husband off a second time. ‘Mostly because we dislike all these
new students invading our town. There are far more of them than usual.’

  ‘Winwick Hall,’ spat Verius. ‘The showy place on the High Street – that is what is attracting all these pompous louts. I wish the Guild of Saints would not give it so much money.’

  ‘Money that should go to the poor,’ agreed Ylaria. ‘The Guild is not what it was when your brother-in-law was in charge, Doctor. There still are some nice people in it, but most are villains – such as the Fellows of Winwick, Deputy de Stannell and Potmoor.’

  ‘Potmoor is all right,’ objected Verius. ‘Nicer than the scholars.’

  ‘Rubbish – he is a rogue!’ Ylaria turned back to Bartholomew. ‘I am none too fond of that Julitta Holm either. I am sorry to say it, as I know you and her are close, but she used to be such a kind lady. Now she never gives money to the poor and—’

  ‘There is a rehearsal for the Michaelhouse Choir tonight,’ interrupted Verius, bored with the tirade. ‘I am a member, as you know, and Brother Michael has promised to execute a conductor for us. I am not sure who he plans to kill, but it will be interesting to see.’

  ‘It means he has written some music for you to sing,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘A processional piece, called a Conductus.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Verius, disappointed. ‘Well, no matter. I shall probably enjoy myself anyway. Ylaria says I have the voice of an angel, and Brother Michael has pledged me a solo part.’

  Bartholomew did not like to imagine what manner of sound the gruff Verius would produce. He took his leave and walked towards the Jewry, but had not gone far before he met Edith and Richard. They were walking stiffly side by side, and he was sorry they no longer linked arms as they would once have done. Edith looked worn and haggard.

  ‘Matt,’ she said with a strained smile. ‘I have been looking for you.’

  Bartholomew glanced at his nephew. ‘Because of the Cardinal’s Cap?’

  ‘No,’ said Richard quickly, and promptly went on a spiteful offensive of his own, to ensure events in that particular tavern were not discussed in front of his mother. ‘Have you seen Julitta Holm this morning? She has unveiled a plan to withdraw free bread for paupers, and some of the prostitutes have asked me to speak to her about it. She is your lover, so I thought you…’

  He pretended to trail off guiltily, but his ploy to expose Bartholomew’s peccadillos failed. Edith knew all about her brother’s affection for Julitta, and considered it none of her business. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and she homed in on what Richard had said.

  ‘I sincerely hope you have not used prostitutes while living under my roof.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Richard, although he had the grace to blush. He changed the subject in a transparent attempt to avoid a lecture. ‘Did I tell you that I plan to apply for a Fellowship at Winwick Hall? Provost Illesy said he would put in a word for me with the College’s founder.’

  ‘You want to be a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

  Richard shrugged. ‘Such a life has much to commend it – long holidays, not much to do during the day, sumptuous feasts in the evenings.’

  Bartholomew laughed.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Knyt,’ said Edith. She stood a little taller and looked her brother straight in the eye. ‘He was a decent man, and I shall miss him.’

  Bartholomew regarded her warily. He knew that particular posture. It meant she was leading up to something – a something that would almost certainly horrify or disconcert him.

  ‘His wife is not decent, though,’ gossiped Richard meanly. ‘I was just telling Mother – I happened to be walking past their house yesterday morning, and I saw Potmoor sneaking out through the back door. He should not have been visiting Olivia when Knyt was out.’

  ‘How do you know Knyt was out?’ asked Bartholomew.

  It was Edith who replied. ‘Because Knyt was with me when Richard was on the Chesterton road. We were discussing the number of blankets we shall need for the poor this winter.’

  ‘Was his house burgled yesterday?’ Bartholomew felt a surge of hope. Perhaps this would allow Michael to arrest Potmoor and charge him with the thefts. A search of his home might even reveal the Stanton Hutch, and Michaelhouse’s problems would be over.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Edith briskly. ‘But its owner died a few hours later. That is what I wanted to discuss with you.’ She glanced at Richard. ‘With both of you.’

  Richard frowned uneasily. ‘I am not sure I follow. Are you suggesting that Potmoor had something to do with Knyt’s death?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Edith with total conviction. ‘And it is not the first time he has killed either.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Richard wryly. ‘The taverns are full of tales about his many victims – some slaughtered by his own hand, and others by that army of henchmen he has recruited. Of course, not everyone believes he is such an outright villain. Provost Illesy says—’

  ‘Everyone thinks that Oswald died of marsh fever,’ interrupted Edith. ‘But I have never been happy with that explanation, as you know. I have thought of little else these last few weeks, and Knyt’s sudden and unexpected death has given me the answers I have been looking for. He was poisoned. And so was Oswald.’

  Bartholomew blinked. This was a wild conclusion, even for a woman desperate to understand why a much-loved spouse had been snatched away with so little warning. ‘I hardly think—’

  ‘By Potmoor,’ finished Edith. ‘He is a wicked slayer of innocent men, and I mean to bring him to justice. And I want your help.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Bartholomew scrubbed hard at his face with his hands. His sister was not easily dissuaded from a course of action once she had decided on it, and preventing her from tackling one of the most dangerous criminals the town had ever known was going to be a challenge. He glanced at Richard, hoping that a combined assault by both would convince her that her deductions were questionable, and that accusing Potmoor was certainly not something Oswald would have wanted.

  But Richard’s expression was troubled, and Bartholomew’s unease intensified. Was Edith’s allegation a possibility that Richard had already considered? Or was his nephew merely afraid that such an accusation might damage his chances of being accepted at Winwick Hall – a place that benefited from Potmoor’s largesse?

  ‘Oswald was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew, quietly but firmly in the hope that calm reason might nip the situation in the bud before it blossomed into something dangerous. ‘Whatever gave you such an outlandish idea?’

  ‘There is evidence,’ replied Edith, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. She had spent too much time brooding, and he realised he should have done more to prevent it. ‘Oswald challenged Potmoor when he first began to ply his nasty trade in Cambridge, and Potmoor did not like it. Oswald was also a powerful voice in the Guild of Saints, and took his responsibility to the poor seriously. So did Felbrigge, Elvesmere and Knyt, and now all four are dead. Tell me that is not suspicious.’

  ‘It is not suspicious,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘Oswald and Knyt died of natural causes, and you cannot compare their deaths to what happened to Felbrigge and Elvesmere. If you wander down that path, you will drive yourself mad.’

  ‘I am right,’ insisted Edith. ‘I guessed the truth ages ago. Now Knyt is dead, I am sure of it.’

  ‘She may have a point,’ said Richard. Bartholomew shot him an exasperated glance: encouraging her was hardly helpful. ‘But we shall need solid evidence to convict Potmoor in a court of law.’

  ‘I have it,’ said Edith with savage triumph, pulling a piece of parchment from her sleeve. ‘I found it today when I was sorting through Oswald’s documents.’

  Richard frowned. ‘The ones in the box? I told you to leave those alone.’

  Edith shot him a look that expressed exactly what she thought of his gall in daring to give her orders, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is a letter inviting Oswald to a meeting, to discuss “certain delicate business”. Well, Potmoor’s dealings with him were ce
rtainly “delicate”. Oswald refused to listen to anything that vile rogue had to say.’

  With Richard peering over his shoulder, Bartholomew read the message quickly. It was in French, nicely penned and perfectly grammatical – and nothing like the kind of communication the boorish Potmoor was likely to send.

  ‘It is unsigned,’ noted Richard. ‘How do you know it is from him?’

  ‘Because it is on expensive parchment,’ Edith replied, ‘which he is wealthy enough to afford.’

  ‘So are many others,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Especially Oswald’s merchant friends.’

  ‘Yes, but they would have sent a servant with a verbal invitation,’ she argued. ‘Potmoor is the only man obliged to converse by letter. He cannot ask his horrible henchmen to recite messages on doorsteps, because no one would be foolish enough to answer their knocks.’

  Bartholomew regarded her sceptically. He could name dozens of people who penned communiqués to friends, kinsmen and acquaintances. Moreover, when Potmoor had been ill, he had used Hugo to fetch medical help, thus proving that he did issue verbal invitations.

  ‘I doubt Potmoor speaks French,’ he said. ‘And even if he does, or he hired a clerk, he is not so stupid as to leave written evidence of a murder he planned to commit.’

  ‘Perhaps he did not intend to kill Oswald when he sent it. Maybe he just wanted to persuade him to turn a blind eye to the illicit activities on the wharves. And when Oswald refused … Look at the date on this letter: Lammas Day.’

  Bartholomew was bemused. ‘What is the significance of that?’

  ‘You were not here, so I suppose there is no reason for you to remember,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Oswald died on Lammas Day.’

  ‘Are you sure he actually went to this meeting?’ asked Richard, while Bartholomew flailed around for a way to tell her that it was probably just coincidence.