Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 13

  ‘Of course.’ She shot him a disdainful glance, one that then turned to her brother. ‘I remember everything about that day, as I have told you on countless occasions before. It was a lovely warm evening, and there was to be a Guild function later. Oswald and I were in the hall with Agatha, who happened to be visiting, when this letter arrived.’

  ‘How do you know it was that letter?’ pounced Bartholomew.

  ‘Purple ink,’ replied Edith, showing it to him. ‘It is unusual and distinctive. And there is the date, of course. Anyway, Oswald read it, then told us that he needed to go out before the Guild gathering, to take care of a small piece of business.’

  ‘But he did not specify that the “business” was with Potmoor,’ said Bartholomew. They were covering old ground – he had lost count of the number of times they had combed through every last detail of his brother-in-law’s final few hours.

  ‘No, but this missive proves it was,’ said Edith stubbornly.

  Bartholomew did not want to be unkind, but he had to make her see sense before there was a serious problem. ‘Not all Oswald’s affairs were wholesome, Edith,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Perhaps that invitation is from another dubious contact who—’

  ‘Matt!’ cried Edith, while Richard’s face darkened with anger. ‘He might have sailed a little close to the wind on occasion, but he was always honest.’

  Not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled at the extent to which Stanmore had managed to pull the wool over his family’s eyes regarding his creative business practices. He tried again to reason with her. ‘Yet you told me only yesterday that you had uncovered evidence of unscrupulous dealings with King’s Hall.’

  ‘There was another with Mistress Tulyet, too,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I discovered it this morning. But these were isolated incidents, and I am sure there was a good reason for them.’

  ‘Of course there was,’ snapped Richard, clenching his fists at his side. ‘And if you had left his personal affairs alone, as I suggested, we would not be having this shameful discussion.’

  ‘Shall I tell you again what happened when he returned home that night?’ asked Edith, and before either could tell her there was no need, she began. ‘He was sombre, which was odd, as he usually enjoyed Guild meetings.’ She favoured Bartholomew with a frosty glare. ‘And it was not because he had had too much to drink.’

  At one point, Bartholomew, familiar with maudlin drunks from College feasts – back when Michaelhouse had been able to afford them – had asked how much Oswald had imbibed. Edith had still not forgiven the impertinence of the question.

  ‘He said he felt unwell and wanted to retire,’ she continued. ‘I stayed chatting to Agatha for a while, then went to see if he needed a tonic. He was clearly ill, so I asked her to fetch a physician. You were in Peterborough, so she called Doctor Rougham.’

  Bartholomew did not look at her, afraid he would see accusation in her eyes again for being away. ‘Why do you find it so difficult to believe that he had marsh fever? He had bouts of it in the past, and August is a bad month for such ailments. Moreover, Rougham said—’

  ‘Rougham!’ spat Edith. ‘You have never trusted his diagnoses before. Why start now?’

  ‘Because he suffers from marsh fever himself. He knows the symptoms.’

  ‘But, as I keep telling you, Oswald’s last illness was not like his other attacks. I have spoken to his friends at the Guild, and they all say the same – he was not himself that evening. And I now know why: because Potmoor enticed him to a meeting first, and gave him poison.’

  Bartholomew turned to Richard for support but his nephew was nodding slowly, an expression on his chubby features that was dark and rather dangerous.

  ‘I have often wondered why he succumbed so quickly to this so-called fever,’ Richard said. ‘Perhaps Potmoor is responsible. Or a so-called friend, jealous of Father’s success and integrity.’

  ‘So now you know the truth,’ said Edith, hands on hips as she regarded them both challengingly. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘I doubt Potmoor is a poisoner. It is too subtle a method of execution for a man like him.’

  ‘Not with a victim like Oswald,’ argued Edith. ‘An official investigation would have exposed him as the one with the obvious motive for murder. But he will not get away with it, not as long as I have breath in my body.’

  Bartholomew could tell that she had resolved to do what she thought was right, and the anger in Richard’s eyes suggested that he might help her. If he wanted to keep them safe, he had no choice but to explore the matter himself, or at least go through the motions.

  ‘I will look into it,’ he promised. ‘But on two conditions. First, that you say nothing to anyone else about your suspicions, and second, that neither of you will try to investigate.’

  ‘But we will be more efficient together,’ objected Edith, dismayed.

  ‘No, he is right,’ said Richard. ‘We may damage his chances of success if we butt in with questions of our own. We should let him work alone.’

  Bartholomew regarded him sharply, not sure what to make of the remark. Was it a blind, and Richard actually intended to initiate an inquest of his own? Was he genuinely acknowledging that two enquiries might be counterproductive? Or was he a coward, unwilling to tackle killers himself?

  Edith considered the proposal for a long time before finally inclining her head. ‘Very well. But I am right about this. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

  Bartholomew entered the Jewry in an unsettled frame of mind, wondering how he was going to prove to his family’s satisfaction that Oswald had died of natural causes. It would be yet another demand on his time, and he was not sure how he would manage. He grew more flustered still when he remembered that his next patient lived in the house that Matilde had once owned.

  It was not easy to enter a place that held so many poignant memories. Matilde’s parlour had been bright, clean and welcoming, full of the scent of herbs and honey. He associated it with laughter, love and warmth. The current occupant, however, had transformed it so completely that he would not have known it, which was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. It was crammed with dark, heavy furniture and horsehair pillows, and there was a powerful stench of burning fat.

  The patient was Marjory Starre, a woman of indeterminate age, sometimes said to be a witch. She hated scholars with a passion that was barely rational, although she graciously allowed Bartholomew to tend her for a recurring tetter, a rash that was interesting enough to compensate for her insistence on outlining all the evils of his University each time they met. That day, however, she was more concerned with the storm that had battered the town the previous night.

  ‘It blew for John Knyt. Everyone knows that a strong wind means a great man is dead.’

  Bartholomew had known no such thing, but most of his attention was on her hands, which exhibited an unusual and intriguing degree of inflammation.

  ‘Potmoor murdered him, of course,’ she went on. ‘Because back in the spring, Knyt voted against his election to the Guild of Saints. Potmoor was not the kind of man Knyt wanted in that venerable body, see.’

  ‘Knyt was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of—’

  ‘Potmoor murdered Felbrigge and Elvesmere for the same reason.’ Marjory cut across him, as was her wont with anyone who tried to argue. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he disposed of your brother-in-law, too. Of course, while Stanmore always claimed to dislike Potmoor, I happen to know they got on very well together.’

  Bartholomew regarded her sharply, wondering if she somehow knew about the discussion he had just had with Edith and Richard. Or perhaps she had put the notion of murder into Edith’s head in the first place. Regardless, there was a sly cant in her eyes that he did not like at all.

  ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Oswald was a criminal,’ he said coolly.

  ‘He was too clever to trea
t with Potmoor publicly, although arrangements were certainly in place behind the scenes,’ she replied artfully. ‘He sold cloth, which he imported via the river that flows through Chesterton – Potmoor’s domain. If you dig deep enough, you will find connections. No wind blew for him, of course, which means he was not a great man.’

  ‘He was to his family,’ said Bartholomew with quiet dignity. ‘And that is what counts.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ asked Marjory archly. She continued her rant. ‘The wind did not blow for Felbrigge and Elvesmere either. But it blew for Knyt, and it will blow again soon.’

  ‘Who for?’ asked Bartholomew, although his mind was back on her tetter, with which he felt a good deal more comfortable.

  ‘Many folk,’ she said, with such sober conviction that he looked at her in surprise. ‘Death is in the air. I can feel it and smell it. You must take extra care, Doctor.’

  Bartholomew left her house even more unnerved than when he had arrived, although he knew her words were rank superstition and he should pay them no heed. He turned the corner, and then did not know whether to feel pleased or more disquieted still when he bumped into Julitta. She saw where he had been, and smiled sympathetically – he had told her about Matilde, although not the possibility that he might receive an offer of marriage in the future, one that he might well accept. Or would he? When he was with Julitta, he tended to long for a life with her instead.

  ‘I am going to another Guild meeting,’ she said, after they had exchanged pleasantries. ‘It has been called to announce the death of John Knyt, although the news is already common knowledge.’

  ‘Who will take his place?’

  ‘Assistant Secretary de Stannell will serve out the rest of Knyt’s term, and we shall hold an election next Easter. Will plans to stand, and I hope he wins.’

  ‘You do?’ said Bartholomew. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and he hastened to explain. ‘The Guild is committed to helping the poor, but Holm has never been very interested in…’

  He faltered, aware that defaming her husband was not the best way to keep her good graces. She might have suffered a cruel shock when she discovered Holm’s true nature, but that did not mean she appreciated disloyal remarks about him. It was an attitude Bartholomew failed to understand, but he supposed it could be attributed to her rigidly traditional upbringing. He was just glad her nuptial devotion did not prevent her from pursuing a relationship with him.

  ‘He knows the Guild’s work is important,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘I have been spending a lot of time on it of late.’

  ‘Is that why people have said that you are less involved with other charitable concerns?’

  She nodded. ‘There is not enough time for it all, so I have decided to concentrate on the Guild for now. We are very busy with arrangements for the beginning of term ceremony.’ Her expression turned rueful. ‘Several scholars have voiced their displeasure at our “meddling”, but it will mark Winwick Hall’s entry into the University – which could not have happened without our money.’

  Holm appeared before Bartholomew could respond, annoyed by the sight of his wife and the physician chatting so amiably together in public. ‘It is a pity you let Knyt die, Bartholomew,’ he said coolly. ‘He was a fine man, and will be sorely missed.’

  ‘You were there first – why did you not save him?’ Bartholomew shot back, then wished he had kept a dignified silence. Why demean himself by sparring?

  ‘I am sure you both did your best,’ said Julitta soothingly, but Holm was not in the mood to be appeased, and attacked on another front.

  ‘I met Hugo Potmoor today. He says his father often dreams of Heaven. You have given that scoundrel serious delusions about himself, ones that even his son cannot dispel.’

  ‘I hardly think that is Matt’s fault,’ objected Julitta. ‘He—’

  ‘Yes it is. He bears responsibility for all the crimes Potmoor has committed since he was snatched from the grave. And his victims now include us. We were burgled last night.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bartholomew addressed his question to Julitta, far more concerned about her than her dreadful spouse.

  She nodded. ‘The thief only got as far as the workshop before we heard him and drove him off. All he got was a few herbs and potions.’

  ‘Herbs and potions that cost money,’ sniffed Holm. ‘And that I would not have to replace, if Bartholomew had not raised Potmoor. I intend to consult a lawyer today, and see about suing him.’

  ‘No, you will not,’ said Julitta firmly. She shot the physician a wan smile. ‘It is shock speaking. Will has never been burgled before.’

  ‘No, and I am more angry than I can say,’ snarled Holm. ‘The next time you revive a felon, please reflect on the impact it will have on decent, hard-working folk.’

  Irritated and disconcerted by the encounter with the Holms, Bartholomew went on his way, but had not gone far when he saw Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence. He went to join them, hoping a medical conversation might restore his equanimity. They were talking about the previous night, when they had been summoned to tend Knyt.

  ‘You should have refused to go,’ Rougham was saying waspishly. ‘He was my patient, and I do not approve of poaching. Especially the lucrative cases.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Lawrence, trying to prevent his long white beard from flapping in the wind. ‘The servant who fetched me claimed that Knyt wanted a fellow guildsman. I was stunned to learn it was a lie. Knyt had been insensible for hours, so could have made no such request.’

  ‘The same tale was told to me,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his grubby hands together. ‘I demurred, because I dislike going out in gales, at which point the fellow threatened to carry me there by force. It was all most distressing.’

  ‘And I was told you were unavailable,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry, Rougham.’

  ‘Very well,’ conceded the Gonville man, mollified. ‘I shall overlook it just this once. It is not the first time a desperate wife has summoned every medicus she knows in order to save a spouse. However, we should all be on our guard. There are rumours that Knyt was murdered, and we do not want to be associated with that sort of thing.’

  ‘Murdered by whom?’ asked Meryfeld, shocked.

  ‘By Potmoor, of course,’ replied Rougham. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lawrence drily. ‘The person deemed responsible for every foul deed and mishap in the town. Well, all I can say is that he must spend very little time eating and sleeping, or there would not be enough hours in the day to get around to them all.’

  Rougham glared at him. ‘He definitely burgled Gonville Hall – a fine foundation like ours will certainly attract his greedy eyes. However, I am willing to concede that he might be innocent of making off with the town’s maypole last night. It does not seem like his kind of crime.’

  ‘That was probably your sister’s apprentices, Matthew,’ said Lawrence. ‘I saw them inspecting it yesterday, and I thought then that mischief was in the offing.’

  ‘It was dumped in the river, where it poses a considerable nuisance to shipping,’ added Meryfeld. ‘But we digress. Was Knyt murdered? I thought he had a seizure.’

  ‘He did have a seizure,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘We are not often unanimous in our diagnoses, especially when Bartholomew is involved, but we all agreed on that one. The rumour about Potmoor killing him is a silly lie put about by fools who aim to make trouble. Of course, I cannot blame them. Potmoor flaunts his misdeeds like banners, which is galling for us victims.’

  ‘You should not have saved him, Matthew,’ admonished Meryfeld. ‘Not only did it make the rest of us look incompetent, but the whole town despises you for it.’

  ‘Catalepsia,’ mused Rougham, before Bartholomew could defend himself. ‘I confess that possibility had not occurred to me. I wish it had, because I would have recommended that he be buried as soon as possible. Then he would have woken up inside his coffin, and no one would have been any the wiser. Except him, of cour
se.’

  Bartholomew was shocked. ‘You would never condemn anyone to such a terrible fate!’

  ‘I agree,’ said Lawrence reproachfully. ‘It is hardly commensurate with our calling.’

  ‘Our calling is to prevent suffering,’ countered Meryfeld loftily. ‘And eliminating such a wicked rogue would have done just that. I side with Rougham. Potmoor grows stronger every day, and I abhor him and his evil deeds. I am glad he is no longer my patient.’

  He shot Lawrence a sour glance that belied his words and made it clear that he bitterly resented losing such a profitable source of income.

  ‘Yet Bartholomew should not bear sole responsibility,’ said Rougham. ‘I sniffed the sal ammoniac that woke Potmoor, and it almost melted my eyeballs. I have since learned that Eyer made a mistake with his ingredients.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ demanded Bartholomew. Eyer was a painstaking practitioner, and while errors were always a possibility, he seriously doubted that the apothecary had made one with the potent ingredients that were involved in producing smelling salts.

  ‘Eyer himself.’ Rougham shrugged sheepishly. ‘In so many words.’

  ‘Does anyone know what gave rise to the tale about Knyt being unlawfully slain?’ asked Meryfeld before Bartholomew could press the matter further. ‘Was it because Potmoor was Olivia’s lover, and liked to slip into her house while Knyt was out?’

  Bartholomew stared at him, recalling what Richard claimed to have seen. Could the rumour be true? He shook himself impatiently. Why would Olivia dally with the unsavoury Potmoor? If the man had visited Knyt’s house when its master was away, then it would have had nothing to do with her. So what had Potmoor been doing there? A small, nagging voice began to scratch at the back of his mind, telling him that perhaps he was wrong to dismiss Edith’s claim so precipitously.

  ‘Are we sure Knyt had a seizure?’ he asked, thinking how easy it would be to enter an empty kitchen and slip something toxic into a dish of food. ‘You said we were unanimous in our diagnosis, but that is untrue. I did not venture an opinion, because I only saw him after he was dead.’