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

  ‘Boiled caterpillars. It is very nutritious, and will set your humours right in no time at all.’

  Manfully, Bartholomew resisted the urge to spit it out. He had forgotten that the apothecary had a penchant for peculiar food, and it was not the first time he had been fed unpalatable snacks. He set the bowl on the table and sat on a bench, glad of some peace after his hectic day. Eyer busied himself with a fire to ward off the evening chill, his face flushed with pleasure at having company.

  ‘Do you need more aqua imperialis?’ he asked. ‘I made a new batch today.’

  ‘I do, but I cannot pay.’ Bartholomew was about to explain why when he remembered that Michaelhouse’s predicament was meant to be a secret.

  Eyer took a bottle from a shelf. ‘Tell your patients that I gave it to you for free. I am still new here and it will do no harm for me to be seen as generous.’

  ‘You are seen as generous already, for the money you give to the Guild of Saints for its charitable work. No one doubts your munificence.’

  Eyer grimaced. ‘Between you and me, these donations are beyond my means, but I must be seen to be wealthy, or customers might think I skimp on my ingredients. I do not, of course, but reputation is all in my business.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘And Rougham told me today that you made a mistake with the sal ammoniac I used on Potmoor.’

  ‘I did not! I merely said that I might have been a little liberal with the ammonium. However, I have no wish to share the blame for raising Potmoor, so I have been telling people that you prayed over it, to improve its efficacy.’

  Bartholomew was dismayed. ‘You accused me of witchery?’

  ‘Praying is not witchery,’ said Eyer sternly. ‘And it would not be the first time that one of my potions was rendered more powerful by invoking God’s name. It is entirely possible that He imbued my sal ammoniac with unusual potency.’

  ‘But you just said you used too much ammonium.’

  ‘May have used too much ammonium. I shall certainly deny it should anyone else ask, and Rougham had no right to reveal something I told him in confidence.’ They sat in awkward silence until Eyer ranged off on another subject. ‘Poor Knyt. I recognised the symptoms of a seizure as soon as I set eyes on him, of course, although it was easy to do when he was still alive. I cannot imagine how you arrived at a diagnosis from a corpse. You are a braver man than me!’

  ‘I diagnosed nothing.’ Bartholomew spoke shortly, as apothecaries did not usually question physicians, and he was not sure he liked it. ‘I left that to Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence.’

  ‘I wonder what anatomical changes occur in seizures,’ mused Eyer, pouring wine into two goblets. Afraid it might be concocted from earwigs or some other undesirable ingredient, Bartholomew declined to take it. ‘I have long felt there is much to be learned from dissection. We might even be able to tell what medicines actually do, which would be of great value to those in my profession. Have you ever witnessed one?’

  Bartholomew did not want to lie, but nor was he willing to discuss a practice that was frowned upon by the Church. ‘The universities in Salerno, Padua and Montpellier are very advanced compared to us,’ he hedged.

  ‘So I have heard.’ Eyer lowered his voice. ‘You will find no enemy of progress in me, Matt. Indeed, if it were in my remit, I would urge you to dissect Knyt. The resulting knowledge would be of great benefit to any medical man.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I cannot see the Guild of Saints being very pleased. Or his wife, for that matter.’

  Eyer sighed. ‘Ignorance is ever the enemy of advancement.’ At that moment, there was an ear-splitting wail that made him leap to his feet in alarm. ‘Christ God! What is that?’

  ‘The Michaelhouse Choir, warming up.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Eyer. ‘I had better stay open late tonight, because I imagine remedies for shattered nerves will be much in demand later.’

  Bartholomew winced as a crescendo blossomed. ‘There is fever in the Dominican Priory, so I think I shall spend the evening there. The sound will not carry that far.’

  ‘Do not be so sure,’ said Eyer grimly.

  Ever hospitable, the Dominicans invited Bartholomew to share their supper, so it was late by the time he returned to Michaelhouse. He walked towards the hall, intending to work for an hour before retiring to bed. As he climbed the spiral stairs, a rank stench told him that he had dined far better than his colleagues. He met Agatha the laundress by the door, carrying an empty pot.

  ‘Have you found the Stanton Hutch yet?’ she asked. ‘You have been out all day, so you must have some news.’

  ‘I am afraid not.’ Bartholomew hesitated, but then forged on, because Edith was very much on his mind. ‘Will you tell me again about the night that Oswald died? I know we have been through it several times already, but my sister … well, she continues to fret.’

  ‘You mean she suspects foul play?’ asked Agatha baldly.

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘She has her concerns, as do many who lose loved ones suddenly.’

  Agatha’s habitually fierce expression softened. ‘Well, I am sorry he is gone. He was one of the best members of the Guild of Saints, and the poor miss him. They will miss John Knyt, too.’

  ‘Edith will continue their good work. So will Richard.’

  ‘Richard!’ spat Agatha. ‘He does not care about beggars. He voted in favour of Potmoor’s proposal to withdraw their free bread this winter.’

  Bartholomew was stunned, both by the fact that Potmoor would suggest revoking such a basic service, and by Richard’s betrayal of his father’s legacy. Why would Richard support a man who made no secret of his criminal activities? Was it because he hoped to curry favour with Winwick Hall, of which Potmoor was a patron? And would he turn against the felon now that Edith had raised the possibility that Potmoor might have poisoned his father? If so, Bartholomew hoped he knew what he was doing, as men like Potmoor tended to react badly to what they saw as betrayal.

  ‘You did not know,’ surmised Agatha. ‘I am not surprised – he is probably ashamed of himself now.’ She sighed. ‘The Guild did much good when Master Stanmore was alive, but it has since come under the control of less kindly members – Surgeon Holm, Potmoor and the Winwick men are more interested in what the Guild can do for them, than what they can do for the poor.’

  ‘Julitta will put matters right. She told me only today that she plans to devote more time to it.’

  Agatha sniffed. ‘Unfortunately, she is married to a greedy, selfish rogue who has other ideas. But you asked about Master Stanmore’s death. Shall I tell the whole story again?’

  ‘If you would not mind.’

  ‘My cousin’s boy Mark works for your sister, and I made him a cake. When I arrived, Master Stanmore was getting ready for a Guild function, and he and Edith were chatting in that teasing, affectionate way they had with each other. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bartholomew, experiencing a sharp pang of sadness. ‘I do.’

  ‘She was sewing a button on his tunic when a message arrived.’

  ‘The one asking Oswald out for a meeting,’ recalled Bartholomew.

  Agatha nodded. ‘When he read it his manner changed – he went from happy, to strained and nervous. He told your sister that he had some business to attend, and left at once.’

  ‘Did you see the letter?’

  ‘It would not have mattered if I had, because I do not read.’ Agatha never said she could not read, always that she did not read. There was a subtle, but significant difference.

  ‘And were you still there when he returned a few hours later?’

  ‘Yes, because young Mark ate too much cake, and made himself sick. Edith and I put him to bed, then sat talking. Master Stanmore came home eventually, but went straight upstairs, saying he felt unwell. Your sister and I chatted a while longer, then she went to offer him a tonic. She found him ailing, and sent me for help. You were away, so I fetched Doctor Rougham.’r />
  ‘Did Rougham come at once?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Agatha’s expression was wry. ‘Master Stanmore was wealthy, and handsome fees were at stake. He diagnosed marsh fever, and Master Stanmore slipped away shortly thereafter.’

  ‘Did Oswald say anything about his evening when he came home?’

  ‘No. He just poked his head around the door to say he felt a little off-colour, and was going to bed. He did not retire immediately, though, because I could hear the floorboards creak as he walked around the solar.’

  ‘Did he seem feverish to you?’

  ‘Not at all. Indeed, it would not surprise me if your sister was right, and someone did do him harm. He knew some very nasty people, so I am glad she wants you to look into the matter.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. Was Edith right after all, and Stanmore had been fed a toxic potion, either at the mysterious meeting or with his Guild friends afterwards? He decided to find out a little more about his kinsman’s last evening, to set his own mind at ease, as much as hers. After all, a few innocent questions could do no harm. Could they?

  To reach the conclave, Bartholomew had to cross the hall. It was full of students, most of them newcomers, so unfamiliar. Some were reading, some were chatting and some were dicing – although the illicit cubes were quickly palmed when he walked by. Goodwyn and the other new medical students had claimed a shadowy corner, and Bartholomew was glad Aungel and his class were not with them, sure they were plotting mischief.

  He entered the conclave. A lamp had been lit, but it was turned so low to conserve fuel that all he could see of his colleagues were silhouettes. Most of them were there. Clippesby had Ethel on his lap; portly Suttone was positively slender next to Michael’s impressive bulk; Father William was identifiable by his unkempt hair and smelly habit; and Thelnetham sat with his knees pressed together and a pomander to his nose. Langelee was by the hearth, holding a sack in his meaty fist.

  ‘Good, we are all here at last,’ the Master said, aiming for the table and indicating that his Fellows were to join him. ‘I suggest we begin immediately.’

  ‘Begin what?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping it was nothing to do with William’s heretical tract. Michael was clutching a sheaf of parchment covered in the Franciscan’s distinctive scrawl, and tightly pursed lips told Bartholomew all he needed to know about what had been written there. ‘And we are not all here, anyway. Hemmysby is missing.’

  ‘He is still at the post-debate refreshments,’ said Langelee with a grimace of disapproval. ‘They finished ages ago, and I cannot imagine what is keeping him. However, he is the one I want to discuss, so it suits me that he is out.’

  ‘Is it about his manoeuvres to stop William from taking part?’ asked Thelnetham. ‘If so, I think he did the right thing. We would have been a laughing stock if he had been allowed to hold forth. Or excommunicated as heretics. Have you finished reading his silly tract yet, Brother?’

  ‘His stolen tract,’ corrected Suttone disapprovingly. ‘Really, William! If you must purloin other people’s work, you could at least choose some that has not drawn the angry attention of the King and the Pope.’

  William glared at them both. ‘I explained why I did it,’ he said tightly. ‘To annoy this acid-tongued Gilbertine. I have no intention of letting anyone outside College see it. And I do not understand what all the fuss is about anyway. The piece seemed theologically sound to me, and Thelnetham is a fool for whining so.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Langelee, as Thelnetham drew breath to retaliate. ‘You will not distract us with a quarrel. I have something nasty to report, and you will sit quietly and listen. Are you ready? Here we go then. Hemmysby stole the Stanton Hutch.’

  There was a stunned silence, the only sounds a faint hissing from the lantern and a muted cheer from the students next door as someone won at dice.

  ‘Have you been drinking, Master?’ asked William, the first to recover his composure.

  ‘I wish I had! It is not pleasant to learn that one of my Fellows is a thief.’

  ‘Hemmysby is not a thief,’ declared Clippesby, hugging the hen. ‘He is a priest.’

  ‘And priests do not steal?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘I could cite a dozen cases to prove otherwise, and so could you.’

  ‘On what grounds do you make this accusation?’ asked Michael worriedly.

  ‘On the evidence I found in his room.’ Langelee reached into the sack and withdrew an object they all recognised immediately. It was the Stanton Cup, its silver-gilt and precious stones glittering brightly, even in the dim light. ‘This was sitting on his table. He did not even bother to hide it.’

  ‘Perhaps one of his students put it there,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He shares with—’

  ‘They are all staying at the Brazen George until term begins, to avoid our food,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘He sleeps alone. And I checked with the servants: none of them have been in there, because he locks the door. And now we know why – to conceal stolen goods.’

  ‘How did you get in, then?’ asked Thelnetham suspiciously.

  ‘I went to borrow some ink. The stuff he buys is better than the muck the rest of you use.’

  It was a bald admission that Langelee raided his Fellows’ quarters in search of supplies he should have purchased himself, and that he picked locks in order to do so, but no one took issue with him over it. All were more concerned with Hemmysby.

  ‘The fact that the cup was in plain sight suggests to me that someone else put it there,’ said Michael. ‘If he stole it himself, he would have kept it hidden.’

  ‘Hemmysby is not a thief,’ repeated Clippesby, more loudly. His eyes were wild, and Bartholomew suspected they were in for one of his turns; such matters always touched him more deeply than the others. ‘The money will turn up sooner or later. Ethel here is sure of it.’

  Michael ignored him. ‘Obviously, the real culprit realised that the cup is not something that can be sold, as it is too readily recognisable. So he decided to return it.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said William in a low voice. ‘Since we lost the hutch, I have been watching the gate. No one has come in who should not have done. However, I did see Hemmysby acting oddly before today’s debate…’

  ‘Explain,’ ordered Thelnetham.

  ‘He was scurrying,’ replied William uncomfortably. ‘Walking oddly hunched, like Judas in the mystery plays. Yet I cannot believe—’

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Thelnetham. ‘That is evidence enough for me.’

  ‘Well, it is not for me,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘I suggest we refrain from drawing conclusions until we have spoken to Hemmysby and heard what he has to say.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Michael. ‘There will be an innocent explanation for this.’

  ‘Yes, there will,’ said Clippesby softly. ‘It is—’

  ‘There will not,’ declared Thelnetham. ‘Look at the facts. Hemmysby is guilty, so accept it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ argued William, although whether he believed it or just could not bring himself to side with the Gilbertine was difficult to say. ‘You do not know what you are talking about.’

  ‘I am not sure what to think,’ said Suttone miserably. ‘The evidence suggests … yet…’

  ‘So Bartholomew, Michael, Clippesby and William deem Hemmysby innocent, Thelnetham and I judge him guilty, and Suttone wavers,’ summarised Langelee. ‘What shall we do? Go to St Mary the Great and demand some answers?’

  ‘Lord, no! That would set tongues wagging.’ Thelnetham stood. ‘We shall await his return, and while we do, I suggest we visit his lair, and see what else he has secreted there.’

  Hemmysby’s quarters were in the south wing, where the rooms were larger, newer and in better repair than the ones where Bartholomew lived. Its ceiling did not leak, and there were thick rugs on the floor and books on a shelf above the hearth. The bed was loaded with blankets, and the students’ mattresses were stacked neatly beneath it. It smelled pleasantly of the spices that hung above th
e door to ward off agues, and of the lavender that was heaped in a silver bowl on the windowsill.

  Bartholomew watched Langelee and Thelnetham rummage in the iron-bound box that held Hemmysby’s personal belongings. Spare habit, underclothes and shoes were tossed out with callous indifference, along with a lovingly embroidered blanket from the priest’s mother. Bartholomew picked it up and folded it carefully, deeply uncomfortable with what they were doing.

  ‘Someone else left the Stanton Cup here,’ he continued to insist. ‘William cannot have kept watch all day, so the real thief waited until he was not looking.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Clippesby. ‘Of course that is what happened.’

  Thelnetham regarded them both in distaste. ‘Clippesby is mad, so can be excused asinine remarks, but you should know better, Matthew.’

  ‘Here are the deeds that prove we own our churches and manors!’ exclaimed Suttone, seizing a pile of documents that lay openly on the bed. ‘How did you miss them when you were here earlier, Master?’

  ‘I did not linger – I just grabbed the cup and hurried to the conclave to talk to you,’ replied Langelee. ‘Are they all there?’

  Michael rifled through them quickly. ‘Yes, thank God! What about the money? Is there any sign of that?’

  ‘And my bestiary,’ added Thelnetham.

  A more detailed search revealed no more. It was now very late and Bartholomew was worried, fearing that Hemmysby might have learned what was happening and be afraid to return lest his explanations were rejected. Cynric was sent to find him, but returned alone.

  ‘St Mary the Great is empty,’ he reported. ‘And I do not know where else to look.’

  It was decided that he might be in the College church, so Bartholomew and Michael went to see. As they walked there, the physician reiterated his certainty of Hemmysby’s innocence.

  ‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘He has plenty of money, and his needs are modest. He has no reason to steal. Besides, the placement of the cup and the deeds in his room had a contrived feel about them. I seriously doubt he put them there himself.’