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

  ‘Perhaps we should include Elvesmere in our enquiries, too. The wound in his back was not instantly fatal, as I said, and his death has puzzled me from the start. He was also a guildsman, like Oswald, Knyt and Hemmysby.’

  ‘You mean he was knifed, but when that did not kill him, he was made to drink poison?’

  ‘Or he drank poison, but it took too long to work, so his killer stabbed him. So how shall we go about unravelling this muddle? By asking Rougham to describe Oswald’s death?’

  Michael patted his arm. ‘I understand his fate is the most important to you. However, I suggest we start with Hemmysby, by finding witnesses who saw him at the debate. Next we shall see what we can learn about Knyt’s last hours. And if we run into Rougham, we shall see what he can tell us about Oswald.’

  Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘This is the point where I usually tell you that I am too busy with patients and teaching. But Oswald and Hemmysby deserve the truth.’

  ‘So do Knyt and Elvesmere,’ said Michael soberly.

  Before they began their enquiries, they were obliged to report their findings to Langelee. The Master was no stranger to violent death, and Bartholomew knew for a fact that he had been responsible for more than a few himself while in the employ of the Archbishop of York, but he still paled when he heard what they had discovered.

  ‘How do you know it was dormirella?’ The way the name tripped off his tongue suggested he was more familiar with it than was appropriate for the head of a Cambridge College. ‘I thought that was undetectable.’

  ‘Not to a physician,’ replied Michael smoothly.

  ‘Nonsense. It leaves no visible marks … Oh, God! Bartholomew looked inside him! I knew it was only a matter of time before his ghoulish curiosity would get the better of him.’

  ‘We needed the truth,’ said Michael defensively.

  ‘But how will you reply when people ask how you have managed to detect the undetectable?’ Langelee sounded appalled and angry in equal measure. ‘I absolutely forbid you to tell the truth. You will have to lie. Say it was narcissus poisoning, which leaves a rash.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you know?’

  Langelee ignored the question. ‘If word gets out that you anatomised a corpse, we shall all be decried as sorcerers. Damn it, Bartholomew! Why could you not restrain yourself?’

  ‘It was under my orders,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And we had no choice. If we had done nothing, Hemmysby would be buried under a cloud of suspicion, and the killer would be laughing at us. Do you want that?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Langelee fought down his exasperation and became practical. ‘You must find the villain as soon as possible. It will be catastrophic if our students decide they do not feel safe here and demand their fees back. You are both excused College duties until the matter is resolved. However, I can only grant you this freedom until the beginning of term.’

  ‘Next Tuesday,’ mused Michael. ‘Five days. Let us hope that is enough.’

  The first place Michael and Bartholomew went after leaving College was St Mary the Great, to ask Chancellor Tynkell whether he had noticed Hemmysby at the debate. It took longer than usual to reach the church because they kept meeting people they knew – Eyer and Meryfeld, Warden Shropham of King’s Hall, and Weasenham, the University Stationer. Bartholomew, uncomfortable, after Langelee’s reaction, with what he had done to Hemmysby, could not meet their eyes, and mumbled shifty responses to their friendly hails.

  ‘Would you like a banner saying you have done something untoward?’ asked Michael. ‘Even that would be more discreet than this abjectly guilty behaviour.’

  ‘I should not have done it,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘Perhaps there are good reasons why the Church frowns on the practice. It felt wrong – like sacrilege.’

  ‘Rank superstition! God gave you your skills for a reason, and He would be disappointed if you were prepared to let a killer go free, just for the want of a few judicious slits.’

  Bartholomew might have been comforted had he thought the monk believed what he said, but he could tell the words were empty – Michael was also wrestling with his conscience over the matter. However, all thoughts of dissection flew from his head when he saw Edith, who was looking pale, tired and older than her years.

  ‘Is it Richard again?’ he asked, concerned.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘He took the chest containing Oswald’s personal documents, the one I found half-burned in the garden, although no one seems to know how it came to be there – and hid it, so I had to order him to give it back. He refused, and we both said things we shall probably regret. In the end, he all but hurled it at me before storming out.’

  ‘Why does he want to keep it from you?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists at his sides, a wave of anger washing through him at his nephew’s boorish behaviour.

  ‘Because he thinks we should respect Oswald’s privacy. But I have uncovered several unpaid bills, and another instance where a customer was overcharged. It is incumbent on me, as Oswald’s heir, to make good on these … oversights.’

  Bartholomew glanced at her ashen face, and knew she was beginning to understand more than was comfortable about the way her husband had run his business. Richard, of course, would prefer to remain in blissful ignorance, taking the lawyerly view that he could not amend what he did not know was wrong. Both scholars set about trying to raise her spirits, but although she was slightly more cheerful when they parted ways, Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before she was cast down again, if not by reading Oswald’s documents, then by Richard’s shabby antics.

  He and Michael were just passing St Michael’s Church when they met Julitta. Surgeon Holm was not with her for once, and she looked especially pretty in a green kirtle with gold embroidery. Bartholomew’s heart swelled with affection for her, which went some way to easing the ache caused by Edith’s unhappiness, his concern for his wayward nephew, and his continuing unease over Hemmysby.

  ‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints,’ said Michael, after they had exchanged warm greetings – very warm on Bartholomew’s part. ‘What can you tell us about Felbrigge?’

  ‘Your Junior Proctor?’ asked Julitta, startled by the question out of the blue. ‘I barely knew him, Brother. He tended to spurn anyone he thought would not be useful to him.’

  ‘He did not think your friendship was worth cultivating?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘But you are wealthy, and therefore have a voice in Guild politics.’

  ‘Not as loud a voice as people like Mayor Heslarton, Mistress Mortimer, John and Hugo Potmoor, the Frevill clan, and the Fellows of Winwick,’ replied Julitta. ‘And Knyt, Hemmysby and Oswald Stanmore when they were still alive.’

  ‘When they were still alive,’ echoed Michael. ‘But they are dead, along with Elvesmere and Felbrigge himself. That makes five guildsmen gone within a few weeks of each other. Have there been any rumours about that? Any hint that something odd is unfolding?’

  Julitta regarded him in astonishment. ‘Surely you do not think there is a connection? How could there be, when three died of natural causes, one was shot, and the other was stabbed?’

  ‘We know Felbrigge was unpopular,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to burden her with their suspicions. ‘But what about the others?’

  ‘Knyt was loved by everyone, while Stanmore was a hero among the poor for his unstinting munificence. Elvesmere was also quietly generous, as was poor Hemmysby.’

  ‘I was sorry to learn you were burgled,’ said Michael, launching into another subject. ‘Your husband complained bitterly to me about it yesterday.’

  Julitta sighed. ‘Poor Will. He has never been the victim of a crime before, and it unsettled him badly. The culprit made a terrible mess in his workshop.’

  ‘Workshop?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Why would a surgeon have one of those?’

  ‘He performs very little cautery these days, and spends most of his time making medicines.’ Julitta smiled
indulgently. ‘His pill for gout is almost ready, although his paste for whitening teeth suffered a serious setback when the thief stole some of his key ingredients.’

  Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Not a substance called dormirella? It cannot be used for whitening teeth – at least, not sensibly – but Holm might have had it for another purpose.’

  ‘He does use dormirella in his tooth-paste,’ said Julitta, a little coolly. ‘It is perfectly safe if you know what you are doing, and Will has a rare talent with such matters.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘So did the thief steal some from him?’

  ‘I believe so.’ She started to add more, stopped, then spoke in a gabble. ‘Signor Nerli. I was walking past Winwick Hall the other day, and I saw him practising his swordplay with Potmoor in the yard. He was far more competent than is respectable for a scholar, and he may well have other sinister talents – like a familiarity with compounds that have Italian-sounding names.’

  ‘He might,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I had better find out just how friendly he is with Potmoor.’

  The expression on Julitta’s face remained troubled. ‘Nerli is not the only Winwick scholar who worries me. I like Master Lawrence very much, but Will tells me that he killed Queen Isabella with incompetence – that he did not retire to dedicate the rest of his life to teaching, but because he was ousted from his post by the King.’

  ‘Typical Oxford man,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am not surprised that Lawrence—’

  ‘Spiteful gossip,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘You should not believe it.’

  Julitta nodded, although doubt remained in her eyes. ‘Speaking of Will, you had better not come for our usual evening tomorrow, Matt. He cannot visit Knyt, as he usually does on Fridays, so he has offered to sing to me instead. I have not yet heard his voice, given that he has suffered so many sore throats since our wedding day, but I am sure it will be beautiful.’

  The surgeon was marginally less easy on the ears than a braying donkey, and it was testament to his skills as a liar that he had managed to conceal it from his wife for so many months. Bartholomew had no doubt whatsoever that an excuse would be invented for the following evening, thus allowing Holm to escape with his musical reputation intact. The man was nothing if not resourceful, and Bartholomew thought Julitta a fool for swallowing so many of his falsehoods.

  ‘Perhaps he should audition for the Michaelhouse Choir,’ he said, uncharacteristically acidic because he resented losing what was the highlight of his week.

  ‘I do not need more members, thank you,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘It is already bigger than ever before, and I shall struggle to conduct it if it grows any further.’

  ‘Gracious,’ said Julitta, wide-eyed. ‘I must remember to stand well back when they perform at the beginning of term ceremony. So as to appreciate the quality of their performance,’ she added quickly when Michael’s eyes narrowed.

  They made their farewells, and the scholars resumed their walk to St Mary the Great. Bartholomew was thoughtful, mulling over the possibility that Holm’s dormirella had killed Hemmysby, along with the fact that so many members of the Guild of Saints were dead. He also pondered Nerli, a man with odd skills for a scholar, whose qualifications Elvesmere had questioned. Had he fabricated them, or did the University at Salerno really award Masters of Civil Law?

  ‘You play with fire, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Enjoying brazen assignations with another man’s wife. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, or you might have found yourself fined for inappropriate relationships. Women are forbidden to scholars, you know.’

  ‘We meet to practise her reading.’

  ‘You can call it what you like,’ said Michael. ‘But I have seen the way you look at each other. However, you should watch yourself, given that her husband has access to poisons. If he sends you a cake, try it out on Goodwyn before eating any yourself.’

  ‘I was thinking much the same. Not about experimenting on Goodwyn, but that Holm might be responsible for killing Hemmysby. They were both guildsmen, and now we learn that he has a supply of dormirella.’

  ‘You want him to be guilty because you love Julitta.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘He was probably never burgled at all, and invented the tale to explain why some of his supply is missing. Doubtless, he is afraid that you will ask everyone to account for any dormirella they have bought in the past.’

  ‘You had better hope not,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because if so, it means he predicted that we would learn Hemmysby was poisoned, and as dormirella is supposed to be undetectable, he will know what we did for answers.’

  Bartholomew gaped at him in horror. ‘He will accuse me of defiling Hemmysby, and one look at the corpse will prove him right! No one will care that he stands accused of murder, because what I did will be considered worse.’

  ‘Then I suggest we visit Eyer, and find out who has bought dormirella recently. If Holm is the only one, we shall arrest him before he can blare any nasty allegations. However, while I understand him wanting you dead, I do not see why he should have taken against our other victims. What would his motive be?’

  ‘To win a louder voice in the Guild of Saints? They deal with enormous sums of money, and he probably hankers after the power such influence will give him.’

  Michael regarded him askance. ‘Holm does not care about the kind of “power” that accrues from giving money to worthy causes. Love is playing havoc with your reason, my friend! What will Matilde say when she returns to find that your heart belongs to another man’s wife?’

  ‘She may never come,’ said Bartholomew shortly, disliking the reminder of his confused feelings. ‘And even if she does, I am not sure we could be happy together.’

  The Chancellor had an office in St Mary the Great, although it was smaller and less well appointed than his Senior Proctor’s. He was busy when they arrived, almost buried under a mound of parchment. Students in holy orders needed dispensations from their priories, abbeys or convents before they could enrol at the University, while others needed licences from bishops. All had to be checked and acknowledged, and it was tedious work. Michael had long since delegated the task to Tynkell on the grounds that he himself had more interesting matters to attend.

  Tynkell was sitting back massaging his neck when the monk walked in. He had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, which meant his company was often disagreeable. There was something peculiar about his physiognomy, too, and Michaelhouse’s students had once started a rumour that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.

  ‘Poor Hemmysby,’ Tynkell sighed, when asked what he remembered about the debate. ‘He argued with great eloquence that the property and jurisdiction of friars are free gifts from God, and was so persuasive that even the monastics applauded his thesis. It is a great pity that he died before he could bask in his success.’

  ‘Did his opinions offend anyone?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Not his opinions, but he was ruthless with those whose minds are less incisive than his own. A number of inexperienced, inept or careless speakers fell prey to his impeccable logic. And no one likes being made to look a fool in front of his peers.’

  ‘So a number of people might have meant him harm?’

  ‘Harm in a future debate, perhaps – to maul him, as he did them – but I cannot imagine anyone wishing him physical hurt. We are scholars, not politicians.’

  ‘Did you see anyone give him a piece of cake?’ asked Michael.

  Tynkell regarded him balefully. ‘You may not have left me much in the way of authority, but I have enough to prevent scholars from eating in church. However, there were refreshments in the vestry afterwards, provided by Winwick Hall. You must remember, Brother – you were there.’

  ‘Only long enough to grab the merest morsel. I had to go to choir practice.’

  Prudently, Tynkell passed no remark on either statement. �
�It was kind of Winwick to provide the food yesterday. The Guild of Saints obliged on the first day, but refused to do it a second time, lest we debated until Christmas, and they were compelled to feed us every night.’

  ‘From what I saw, that was not an unreasonable concern,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘But Winwick was caught out by the number of scholars who appeared for the victuals, especially as many had not bothered with the debate, and only wanted the food.’ Tynkell did not look at Michael. ‘So several guildsmen came to their rescue. De Stannell sent wine, Meryfeld marchpane, Eyer nuts and Edith Stanmore some magnificent fruitcake.’

  ‘My sister?’ Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘And Hemmysby ate some?’

  ‘We all did,’ replied Tynkell. ‘There must have been two hundred of us, and we all enjoyed her baking. Hemmysby stood in my little group in the vestry. I am fairly sure he took some cake. He had no wine, nuts or marchpane, though. There was not enough of the first, and he did not like the second and third.’

  ‘Who else was in this group?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew remembered that Hemmysby often mentioned his aversion to nuts and anything containing them.

  ‘William and Thelnetham, who spent the time bickering over some tract one of them had penned; Rougham, who did not attend the debate and only came for the food; and Illesy and his Fellows, along with that loutish student who acts as a guide for Bon – Uyten. He hails from John Winwick’s home village, you know, and he has taken the name to—’

  ‘When did these refreshments finish?’ interrupted Michael curtly, not interested in irrelevancies.

  ‘About halfway through your choir practice, which we could hear quite clearly from here. I was vexed because everyone left me to do the clearing up alone, even the Winwick men, who used the excuse that they were expecting a visit from you. I pointed out that you would not come as long as the choir was singing, but to no avail.’

  ‘I did visit,’ said Michael. ‘They were settled in their parlura by then.’