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

  They entered St Michael’s graveyard and approached the porch, where Michael began the laborious business of jiggling the awkward latch – more difficult in the dark than in daylight.

  ‘Hemmysby will never mend this if he learns that Thelnetham and Langelee have declared him a felon,’ he said. ‘And it would serve them right. Lord! The wretched thing is stickier than ever tonight. It must be the damp. You try.’ He stepped back to give the physician room, then released a yelp of surprise as he toppled backwards.

  ‘Are you hurt, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, struggling to keep the amusement from his voice. It was not often that Michael lost his dignity.

  The monk replied with some pithy obscenities that made Bartholomew laugh aloud.

  ‘I tripped over a … Oh, Christ!’ While Michael was not averse to swearing, he rarely blasphemed, and the exclamation put an abrupt end to Bartholomew’s mirth. ‘Help me, Matt! Quickly! I am sitting on someone. A dead someone!’

  Bartholomew groped about in the blackness, locating a chest and then a face. There was no breath, and the skin was cold. Michael was right: it was a corpse. He felt something else, too – a familiar pectoral cross and a head of wildly bushy hair.

  It was Hemmysby.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a dismal night for Bartholomew. He carried Hemmysby into the church, while Michael fetched the other Fellows. All watched in shocked silence while he inspected the body just carefully enough to say that the priest had not been shot, stabbed or battered. He would conduct a more thorough examination the following morning, when he could see what he was doing.

  As a mark of respect, they decided to keep vigil for the rest of the night. Bartholomew took the first shift, standing over his dead colleague until Langelee relieved him at midnight. He returned to Michaelhouse and fell into an exhausted drowse, but woke two hours later and could not go back to sleep, so when a summons came to tend a case of fever, he was relieved to turn out. Medical matters kept him busy until six o’clock, after which he went to visit Edith, because he saw a light burning in her solar.

  Sleep had eluded her, too, and he spent an hour listening to her repeat her conviction that Potmoor had murdered Oswald. Prudently, he did not add fuel to the fire by saying that Marjory Starre and Agatha thought she might be right. She had also discovered two more documents proving that Oswald had overcharged trusting customers, although Richard had declared they did no such thing, and they had quarrelled about it.

  ‘Where is he?’ Bartholomew asked, coming angrily to his feet. ‘Upstairs in bed?’

  Edith rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not. He is out with his friends, as usual.’

  Richard was still out when Bartholomew left. The physician walked slowly through the lightening streets, and arrived at the church just in time for morning prayers. Although Hemmysby was invisible to view – Langelee had moved him to the Stanton Chapel, the small chamber next to the high altar – everyone was acutely aware of his presence. The students cast frequent glances at the chapel door, and some of the younger ones had clearly been crying.

  ‘Langelee found the Stanton Cup in Hemmysby’s room yesterday,’ Bartholomew heard Goodwyn whisper to Aungel. ‘He was a thief, so do not mourn him. And he is not the only Fellow with an unsavoury reputation: our own tutor raises criminals from the dead and consults with the Devil on his more difficult cases, while Brother Michael arranged for his deputy to be shot.’

  ‘Then you should watch I do not “arrange” for the same thing to happen to you,’ said Michael, making Goodwyn jump in alarm by speaking in his ear. ‘But this time I shall settle for threepence, which is the price of brawling in the Griffin last night.’

  ‘It was not my fault!’ Goodwyn pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘It was his nephew who took us there. And poor Uyten from Winwick Hall lost three teeth in that skirmish.’

  ‘Then my fine will remind you not to be so foolishly gullible again,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘And later, you can help Agatha wash the jugs we used at choir practice last night.’

  ‘Clean up after peasants?’ But Goodwyn reached for his purse when a steely expression suffused the monk’s face. However, it did not stop him from muttering, ‘It was choir practice that sent us in search of strong drink in the first place. That rendition of Wycombe’s Alleluia…’

  ‘I assume you were going to furnish us with a compliment,’ said the monk tightly. ‘If not, you will pay two shillings for gross impudence.’

  ‘You cannot…’ began Goodwyn, then forced a smile. ‘Your choir is unique, Brother, and I can honestly say that I have never heard anything like it. I cannot wait for the next rehearsal.’

  ‘I must browse the statutes for a way to eject him,’ said Michael through gritted teeth as Goodwyn slunk away. ‘I do not want him in Michaelhouse.’

  Nor did Bartholomew. He joined the procession to return to the College for breakfast, but Langelee had other ideas.

  ‘Inspect Hemmysby properly, then come back and tell me what you find,’ he instructed. ‘I imagine he took his own life. He must have felt guilty about stealing the hutch, so he left the deeds and the cup where he knew they would be found, and took the easy way out.’

  Bartholomew disagreed. ‘Why would he commit suicide outside a church? Moreover, he was at the debate all day yesterday. People do not attend those sorts of events and then kill themselves.’

  ‘I might, if I had been obliged to listen to that claptrap for so many hours,’ said Langelee. ‘But his death is a bitter blow on two counts. First, because now we cannot ask him to give us back our money. And second, because he was a good teacher, who will be difficult to replace.’

  Bartholomew waited for everyone except Michael to leave, and locked the door behind them. He did not do anything overtly gruesome when inspecting corpses, but Goodwyn’s remark made him wary of exacerbating the tales of his association with the Devil.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Michael, guessing the reason for his caution. ‘He has a poisonous tongue, as evidenced by his gossip about me.’

  ‘Edith heard that particular rumour, too.’

  Michael waved dismissively. ‘I can think of far more creative ways of dealing with upstart minions than hiring archers to shoot them, and anyone who matters knows it. Still, it is galling to think that I am the subject of tittle-tattle by the likes of Goodwyn.’

  ‘Have your beadles found Fulbut yet?’

  ‘No, and I am beginning to suspect that whoever employed him has taken steps to ensure that he will never spill his secrets.’

  ‘You mean he might be murdered himself?’

  Michael nodded. ‘There must be some reason why he has disappeared so completely.’

  ‘Do you think de Stannell is right to accuse him of setting light to St Clement’s? After all, I saw him skulking near the back of it shortly afterwards, and its vicar freely admits to giving a damning sermon with thinly disguised references to Potmoor’s “resurrection”.’

  ‘It is possible – Heyford is his own worst enemy with his nasty orations. But you had better make a start. We cannot stay locked in here too long, or people will wonder what you are doing.’

  Bartholomew made no move to oblige. ‘These rumours about the Devil and necromancy would not be so galling if I had not tried so hard to conform – keeping my opinions to myself, never discussing the teachings of my Arab master, bowing to traditionalism at every turn…’

  ‘Then just imagine what folk would be saying if you had not taken steps to toe the line. Be thankful for small mercies. Now are you going to begin or not?’

  Bartholomew was thorough, but there was no sign of violence, self-inflicted or otherwise, and everything indicated that Hemmysby had just fallen over dead in the churchyard.

  ‘He must have been taken ill after the debate,’ he said eventually. ‘And came here as the nearest refuge, but the sticky latch defeated him and he died outside.’

  ‘Died of what?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Some failure of the vital org
ans, I suppose. Heart, brain or liver.’

  ‘Natural causes?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘That is very convenient, given what we found in his room. Are you sure he has not been poisoned?’

  ‘No. Some toxic substances leave obvious marks – discoloration, rashes, swelling and so forth – but many are untraceable.’ Bartholomew leaned against the wall. ‘I witnessed a dissection at Salerno once, where poisoning was suspected. There were no external signs, but the anatomist discovered plenty internally. His diligence allowed a killer to be brought to justice.’

  ‘How did he do it? By slitting the victim open from chin to toes?’

  ‘Hardly! He made an incision in the neck, and the lesions were immediately apparent. He could have stopped there, but he removed the stomach, liver and intestines as well, to show us that damage had occurred in those, too.’

  Michael was silent for a long time, staring down at their dead colleague. ‘I do not believe Hemmysby died naturally,’ he said at last. ‘And I do not believe he stole the Stanton Hutch either. I think someone is trying to lead us astray.’

  ‘What are you saying? That he was poisoned? Murdered?’

  Michael nodded slowly. ‘Yes, because we also have two other untimely “natural” deaths – Knyt and Oswald Stanmore. Like Hemmysby, both were guildsmen.’

  ‘Rougham said Oswald died of marsh fever…’

  ‘But Rougham is not a good medicus, and you do not trust his opinion,’ finished Michael.

  ‘I will quiz him about it today. Again.’

  ‘Do. Meanwhile, I dislike the notion that someone might be using Hemmysby to mislead us, and I will not let him be buried amid rumours of dishonesty and suicide. I want his name cleared.’

  ‘So do I, but how will you go about it?’

  Michael looked up at him very slowly, and the physician was disconcerted by the haunted expression in his eyes. ‘By asking you to look inside him.’

  Bartholomew’s jaw dropped. ‘You want me to dissect Hemmysby?’

  ‘Not dissect,’ corrected Michael, distaste clear in his face. ‘Just make a small incision to look for these telltale lesions. I do not expect you to … pull anything out.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘But you have always said you would never permit such a procedure, yet here you are encouraging me to do it on a friend. In a church!’

  Michael winced. ‘If there was another way, I would take it, believe me. But I can think of none, and I will not see Hemmysby in a suicide’s grave – which is where he will go unless we prove his innocence. Thelnetham will see to that.’

  ‘He will. But I cannot do what you ask, Brother. Hemmysby would not have liked it.’

  ‘I disagree. He said not two days ago that he approved of anatomical studies, and I am sure he would rather suffer a little judicial slicing than lie in unconsecrated ground for eternity.’

  ‘Looking inside him might – might – disclose whether he swallowed poison, but not whether he did it himself or was given it by someone else. Thus a dissection will not provide you with the answers you want, and nor will it save Hemmysby from an anonymous hole outside the town gates.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ conceded Michael. ‘But it would give us a place to start.’

  Bartholomew was surprised by the depth of his disinclination to do what Michael asked, especially as he had always championed dissection as an enlightened way to learn more about the mysteries of the human body. He shook his head. ‘I will not do it, Brother. Not on Hemmysby.’

  Michael made an irritated sound at the back of his throat. ‘Why not? You have been itching to try it for years, but the moment I give you my blessing, you baulk. Where lies the problem?’

  Bartholomew did not want to admit the truth, which was that he was sometimes assailed with the uncomfortable sense that God did not approve of what he did to the dead in the name of justice, and that weighing in with knives and forceps was likely to make the feeling a lot worse. He hedged.

  ‘I have no training in the art. Watching once or twice is not the same as being taught how to do it properly. I am not qualified.’

  ‘It cannot be that different from all the illicit surgery you conduct. Indeed, I imagine it will be a sight easier, as Hemmysby is unlikely to move.’

  ‘But he was a friend, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘It would not be right.’

  ‘What is not right is failing to do all in our power to clear his name and ensure he lies in the grave he deserves. I am not happy with desecration either, but I am prepared to set aside my aversion for the sake of justice. And if you care anything for Hemmysby, you will agree.’

  Bartholomew was acutely unhappy. ‘There must be a better way…’

  ‘If there is, then I am all ears. If not, please make a start. I shall stand guard outside – we cannot have anyone walking in on you, and it will relieve me of the obligation to watch.’

  When Michael had gone, Bartholomew stood motionless, looking at the body that lay before him as he tried to make sense of the whirlwind of conflicting emotions that raged within him. He had thought for years that dissection was the only way to establish accurate causes of death, but now he had permission to put his beliefs into practice, he was nervous, hesitant and afraid.

  Yet at the same time, Michael was right: Hemmysby deserved to be exonerated, and an internal examination would provide a place to start. Heart thumping, he took a scalpel and made an incision. It was easier than he had anticipated, and once it was done, the intellectual part of his mind took over. He was able to disregard the fact that he was looking inside a friend, and concentrate on what he had learned at Salerno. It did not take him long to do what was necessary or to stitch up the holes he had made.

  When all was done, and Hemmysby was lying decently in a clean robe, Bartholomew washed his hands in a jug of water and went outside. He found Michael looking pale and furtive.

  ‘I do not want to hear anything other than what you found,’ said the monk in a low voice. ‘I have been praying, to ask if what we are doing is right, but the only reply has been a resounding silence. I almost ran back inside to stop you, but the thought of Hemmysby’s eternal repose kept me rooted here among these graves.’

  Bartholomew slumped down next to him, oddly exhausted now the deed was done. ‘He was poisoned. The signs are identical to those I saw in Salerno. The toxin then was a substance called dormirella, from the Latin for sleep, and I suspect the same one was used here. It contains many potent ingredients, including realgar, dwale and hemlock, which are deadly, as you know.’

  Michael regarded him askance. ‘I know no such thing! And what are dwale and realgar? I have never heard of them.’

  ‘Dwale is belladonna, and realgar is a reddish mineral used for dyeing cloth, tanning leather—’

  ‘Enough! I do not need an alchemy lesson.’ Michael swallowed hard. ‘I do not know whether to be smug that I was right or appalled that something so terrible has happened. Did he suffer?’

  ‘I imagine he just felt increasingly sluggish until he was overwhelmed with the need to sleep – hence the name dormirella. He may have been a little dizzy or feverish, and there may have been a slight burning in the throat, but this is a toxin that kills its victims quietly and without a fuss.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Michael crossed himself. ‘How long does it take to work?’

  ‘It depends on the dose, which I have no way of determining.’

  ‘And there is nothing to say whether he swallowed it accidentally or otherwise?’

  ‘The contents of his stomach suggest it was probably in some cake. Thus it was unlikely to have been suicide – he would have swallowed it straight from the bottle if it had been self-murder.’

  ‘Cake?’ cried Michael, shocked all over again. ‘What kind of cake?’

  ‘One with dried fruit in it, although I cannot be more specific, I am afraid. I suppose I could take a sample to—’

  ‘No!’ Michael raised a hand to stop him. ‘I am sure we can man
age without molesting him further. However, we can certainly dismiss accidental poisoning. Such a substance is unlikely to fall into food by mistake, which means it was put there deliberately.’

  ‘Yes, probably. So he was murdered, which means he can go in the churchyard. At least we have done that much for him.’

  Michael closed his eyes, trying to push his continuing disquiet to the back of his mind. ‘So who wants Hemmysby blamed for stealing the Stanton Hutch, and dead so he cannot deny it? Someone from Michaelhouse? His students liked him, but he earned the displeasure of others for backing Thelnetham in his feud with William. And our College is currently full of strangers…’

  ‘I hope you are wrong.’ Bartholomew hated the notion of a killer in their home.

  ‘We need to locate the generous soul who gave him cake. There was none in his room – I would have noticed – so he must have eaten it at the post-debate refreshments.’ He regarded the physician in sudden alarm. ‘Lord! I hope there are no more victims among our theologians.’

  ‘If so, you would have heard about them by now.’

  ‘True. Now what about Knyt? I doubt Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence are capable of telling the difference between a natural attack and the insidious effects of this sly toxin.’

  That had already occurred to Bartholomew, along with the fact that Potmoor had been in the Knyt house shortly before its owner had died – and Potmoor was the man whom Edith suspected of poisoning her husband. He shrugged at Michael’s question.

  ‘It is impossible to know without looking inside him.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘It is one thing anatomising Hemmysby, safe in the knowledge that no one will ever find out, but another altogether to do it to a wealthy merchant. It would be discovered, and you would be denounced as a warlock.’

  ‘Then how will we learn the truth?’

  Michael spread his hands. ‘Simple – you listed the symptoms that Hemmysby would have suffered as the potion worked. If our other victims were similarly affected, then we can infer that they were fed dormirella, too. It should not be difficult. Knyt had a wife, servants and medici who watched him in his final hours, while Oswald had Edith, Agatha and Rougham.’