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

  Illesy was by the hearth, with his Fellows clustered around him, so Ratclyf began to make introductions. First he indicated Master Lawrence.

  ‘As you know, our lawyer-medicus was the late Queen Isabella’s personal physician. But most of us are distinguished in our fields, so his appointment is in keeping with the high standards we at Winwick Hall aim to promote.’ Ratclyf turned to his Provost, and suddenly his voice was far less friendly. ‘And you have met Illesy, of course. Legal adviser to the villainous Potmoor.’

  ‘And plenty of other clients,’ added Lawrence quickly, when Illesy began to scowl. ‘No one knows more about criminal law than he, and we are lucky to have him. When they graduate, most of our students will be bound for Court, so such knowledge will be very useful.’

  He beamed affably, although Bartholomew was disconcerted to learn that the men who ran his country might need to call upon someone who possessed the same kind of sly skills that had kept Potmoor from the noose.

  ‘I am not the only member of Winwick with links to Potmoor,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘Lawrence is his physician, a post he took when the last medicus was dismissed for failing to save him. I understand the honour was offered to you, Bartholomew, but you declined it.’

  Bartholomew had, because he had no wish to be at the beck and call of wealthy criminals, although the excuse he had given was that he had too many patients already.

  ‘I like Potmoor,’ said Lawrence. ‘And I have seen nothing but generosity and kindness in him.’

  ‘And here are our last two Fellows,’ Ratclyf went on, treating the claim with the contempt he felt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Albizzo di Nerli is from Florence, and is an expert in civil law. He has a string of degrees from the University at Salerno, and will certainly attract the best students.’

  Nerli was a darkly handsome man with long black hair, an olive complexion and hooded eyes. He did not smile when Bartholomew bowed, and there was something cold and predatory about his manner. He stood apart from the others, as if he did not consider them sufficiently worthy company.

  ‘I have been a scholar all my life,’ he said. The others had been speaking French, but Nerli used Latin, which he pronounced with a strong Florentine accent. ‘But only in the country of my birth. Thus I am delighted with the opportunity to ply my skills farther afield.’

  ‘And finally, William Bon will teach our students how to be notaries public,’ finished Ratclyf.

  Bon had a sharp, narrow face and wispy fair hair. The pupils of both eyes were white, and a student had been detailed to stay with him to ensure he did not fall. He moved confidently across the parlura to greet Bartholomew, though, and the physician suspected he would fare better still once the College was not strewn with workmen’s tools and building materials.

  ‘So now we all know each other,’ said Illesy snappishly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned from examining our unfortunate colleague?’

  ‘Very little,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Except that I suspect he was stabbed elsewhere and was brought to the latrine after he died, perhaps to delay his discovery.’

  ‘So he was definitely murdered?’ asked Lawrence in a small voice.

  ‘Yes. However, the wound would not have been instantly fatal, so I fail to understand why he did not call for help.’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ suggested Ratclyf. ‘But starting a new College is exhausting work, and we all sleep very soundly.’

  ‘The killer will be a member of another foundation,’ said Bon unpleasantly. He had a shrill, nasal voice, and its tone was acidic. ‘King’s Hall, Gonville, Valence Marie, Michaelhouse – they all resent us, and would love us tainted by scandal.’

  Before Bartholomew could object to the claim, the door opened and the porter entered. His name was Jekelyn, a surly, belligerent man who was not above greeting visitors with torrents of unprovoked abuse. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Visitor,’ he announced sourly. ‘John Knyt, Secretary of the Guild of Saints, who is probably here to make sure the donations it has given us are not being squandered. Although it is none of his business if they are.’

  Bartholomew had always liked Knyt, a principled, compassionate man who was generous to the poor. He had been the obvious choice to lead an organisation that was committed to doing good works, a task he had inherited in August after the sudden death of Oswald Stanmore.

  ‘Knyt!’ cried Illesy gushingly, indicating with a sweep of his arm that the visitor was to enter. ‘You have caught us at a bad moment, I am afraid. Poor Elvesmere has been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ echoed Knyt, shocked. ‘I heard he was dead – servants gossip, and one of yours told one of mine – but no one said anything about murder. What happened?’

  ‘He was stabbed,’ replied Ratclyf. ‘I imagine it was Potmoor’s doing.’

  ‘It was not,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘I am inclined to agree,’ said Lawrence, as Ratclyf drew breath to argue. ‘There is a tendency to blame everything on him these days, and he cannot be guilty of every crime.’

  ‘No,’ said Ratclyf flatly. ‘Of course not.’

  There was no more Bartholomew could tell the Provost and his Fellows, so he took his leave. Knyt went with him, murmuring that the College should be left to grieve in peace. He and the physician walked across the yard, where the great gates that led to the High Street were detached from their posts and stood propped against a wall – the carpenter had ordered the wrong hinges, so they were waiting for a set that would fit.

  ‘How is Edith?’ asked Knyt. ‘I see her at Guild meetings, and she is always so very sad.’

  Bartholomew knew this all too well. Although his sister’s marriage had been arranged, she had loved her husband dearly, and his death had left her grief-stricken and lonely. Bartholomew hated seeing her so low, but was acutely aware that there was nothing he could do to help.

  ‘She buries herself in work,’ he replied. ‘Running Oswald’s business.’

  ‘He was wise to have left it to her,’ said Knyt. ‘Not only because it gives her life purpose while she mourns, but because I doubt your nephew would make a good clothier. Two dozen people rely on that venture for their livelihoods, and it is safer with Edith than with Richard.’

  Bartholomew nodded, although he feared that Edith’s increasing familiarity with the work might teach her things about it that she would rather not know. Like most successful merchants, Stanmore had not always been gentle or honest, a fact he had carefully concealed from his wife and son. Bartholomew might have remained in ignorance, too, were it not for patients who had complained to him. Thus every time Edith spoke with a customer or opened a ledger, he braced himself for her dismay at discovering something upsetting. Ten weeks had passed without incident, but this only meant that the shock would be all the greater when she did find something amiss.

  ‘I am surprised Richard is still here,’ Knyt went on. ‘His father’s death left him a very rich man. I thought he would have dashed straight back to London to make the most of it.’

  Bartholomew was also bemused by Richard’s disinclination to leave, as his lawyer-nephew had always professed to find Cambridge dull after the heady delights of the city. Unfortunately, rather than being a comfort to his mother, Richard was a strain. She could pretend he was sober and hard-working when he was away, but it was difficult to maintain the illusion when he was living under her roof.

  ‘Poor Stanmore,’ sighed Knyt. ‘His death was a great shock to us all. It was so sudden.’

  It had certainly been a nasty blow for Bartholomew. Stanmore and Edith had raised him after the early loss of his parents, so his brother-in-law had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. He might have deplored Stanmore’s shabby antics in commerce on occasion, but he had loved him as a kinsman, and his death left a hole that would never be filled.

  ‘The University’s students are returning, I see,’ remarked Knyt, as they stepped on to a High S
treet that teemed with people. ‘Is it my imagination, or are there more of them than usual?’

  ‘There are more,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Most have come to apply to Winwick Hall. I did not realise that law was such a popular subject.’

  Knyt laughed. ‘Stanmore always said you were unworldly, and that remark proves it. Everyone knows that law is the most lucrative of professions.’

  ‘Is it?’ Bartholomew had never cared about money. He could have made a princely living if he had confined himself to calculating horoscopes for affluent townsmen, but he was more interested in genuine diseases, which meant that most of his clients were poor and unable to pay.

  ‘Oh, yes. We have several lawyers in the Guild, and they are by far our richest members. And look at the clerk who founded Winwick Hall – one of the wealthiest men in the country.’

  ‘So I have heard.’

  ‘Yet I would not trade places with him for the world. He might have power and pots of money, but I live in a town I love, surrounded by friends and family. And as Secretary of the Guild, I spend a lot of time helping people in need. What could be more rewarding than that?’

  They stepped aside to let a gaggle of young men strut past. Bartholomew supposed a senior member of the University and the Secretary of the Guild of Saints should have stood their ground, but he disliked pointless confrontation, and was glad Knyt did, too. Unfortunately, they were seen by several apprentices, who scoffed at their pusillanimity. He grimaced, suspecting there would be serious trouble between the newcomers and the town before long.

  ‘Have you heard about the recent increase in burglaries?’ asked Knyt, as they resumed their journey. ‘They coincide with Potmoor’s resurrection.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘Potmoor was not dead – he had catalepsia. And it is not my fault that he has decided to indulge in a crime spree either.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Knyt soothingly. ‘Personally, I do not believe that Potmoor is the culprit, and I spoke not to rebuke you, but to warn you – there are folk who think you are to blame, so be on your guard. We cannot afford to lose the only physician who helps the poor.’

  ‘Lawrence helps the poor.’

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Knyt. ‘But not to the same extent. Still, he is better than the other medici, who do nothing at all. Especially Surgeon Holm, who refuses point blank when I ask him to tend deserving cases. Incidentally, he seems to have taken a rather violent dislike to you.’

  Bartholomew blushed. Holm’s antipathy stemmed from the fact that Bartholomew was in love with his wife. The surgeon was naturally indignant, but his homosexuality meant he was not in a strong position to win her back. The couple had reached an understanding about the friendships each wished to pursue, but that did not mean that Holm was happy about being cuckolded.

  ‘Will you be at the Cambridge Debate tomorrow?’ asked Knyt when there was no reply to his observation. ‘The Guild has agreed to sponsor the refreshments afterwards.’

  ‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘The topic is apostolic poverty, with monks arguing that friars should denounce all property and privileges, and friars arguing that they should be allowed to keep them. I am neither a friar nor a monk, and do not want to be drawn into it.’

  ‘The monks have a point: friars are meant to live like Christ, simply and modestly. They are not supposed to lounge in luxurious convents, eating and drinking like princes. Monks, however, live contemplative lives, which you cannot do effectively with a growling stomach.’

  Bartholomew laughed, amused by the simplification of a row that was threatening to tear the Church apart. ‘I would not repeat that to a friar if I were you. You would never hear the end of it.’

  Michaelhouse was the third College to be founded at Cambridge, and had recently celebrated its thirty-fourth birthday, although opinions were divided as to whether it would see its thirty-fifth. Its founder had endowed it with a pleasant hall, land in the centre of town, several houses and a church, not to mention the tithes of four parishes. Unfortunately, mismanagement and a series of unwise investments meant it was currently on the brink of ruin.

  Bartholomew opened the gate and paused for a moment to survey the place that had been his home for more years than he could remember, and that he would miss horribly should the pessimists be right about the seriousness of its financial problems.

  The courtyard had once been grassed, but was now an expanse of mud. On the far side was the hall, a large but shabby building with kitchens below and two large chambers above. The bigger room was the refectory, which boasted a pretty but glassless oriel window and a sizeable hearth; trestle tables were set out for meals, then stacked away when it was time for lessons. The other room was the conclave, exclusive domain of the Master and his Fellows.

  At right angles to the hall were the two accommodation blocks. Bartholomew lived in the older, more dilapidated wing, where he had been allocated two rooms. He shared one with his students, while the second, no more than a cupboard, was used for storing medicines. He sometimes slept there, as the other was a tight fit at night when all the students unrolled their mattresses.

  He arrived to find his pupils involved in an angry-voiced discussion that stopped the moment he opened the door. His current senior student, a red-haired, merry-faced lad named Aungel, quickly began to read aloud from the copy of Theophilus’s De urinis that lay on his knees, although his guilty expression suggested the quarrel had been about something else entirely – probably the results of their illicit gambling ring, or the proscribed delights of the town’s prostitutes.

  ‘I do not see why we should study before term begins,’ said John Goodwyn, a haughty newcomer who was older than the rest. Bartholomew had not chosen to teach him – indeed, he would have rejected the lad had he interviewed him himself – but the Master had been bribed with the offer of double fees. Bartholomew was not pleased: Goodwyn was a disruptive influence, leading the others to grumble when they normally would have been compliant.

  ‘Sitting in a tavern would be much more fun,’ agreed Aungel wistfully.

  ‘Taverns are forbidden to scholars.’ Bartholomew raised his hand to quell the immediate objection that Goodwyn started to make. ‘And do not say you will not be a scholar until next week, because you became one when you signed our register.’

  Goodwyn fell silent, although he shot his teacher a resentful glare. Bartholomew ignored it, and set the class an exercise that would keep them busy for the rest of the day. He knew he drove them hard, but the country was still desperately short of qualified physicians after the plague, and he was determined that the ones he trained would be worthy to replace those who had died.

  When he was sure they had understood his instructions, he left Aungel to supervise, and retreated to the storeroom. He closed the door to block out the sound of Goodwyn’s whine, and slumped on a stool. He was exhausted. Lawrence had taken on some of his patients, but he still had far too many, and he was not sure how he would cope when teaching began the following week.

  He glanced at the treatise on fevers he had been writing for the past few years, originally intended to be a brief guide for students, but now extending to several volumes. He could not remember when he had last added to it. Admittedly, some of his spare time had gone on trying to invent a decent lamp for night-time consultations – experiments from which he was now banned after they had gone disastrously wrong – but how much longer would he have to struggle against increasingly impossible workloads?

  Sighing wearily, he pulled Galen’s Prognostica towards him and started to write the commentary he would need to provide as his students slogged their way through it. He had only been working a few moments when the door opened and Brother Michael stepped in. The monk was his closest friend, but Bartholomew still felt a surge of annoyance at the interruption.

  ‘Where is your wine?’ Michael demanded. ‘I need a drink.’

  He snatched the flask from the shelf before Bartholomew could reply, and poured himself a generous meas
ure. It was the cheapest claret available, used in medicines where its taste was irrelevant, and he winced as it went down. The sour flavour did not prevent him from taking a second swig, though. Then he plumped himself down on a bench, where an ominous creak made both scholars tense in alarm – Bartholomew afraid for furniture he could not afford to replace, and Michael worried for his dignity. But the joints held, and the two of them relaxed.

  Besides being a Benedictine theologian of some renown, Michael was also Senior Proctor, and his years in post – he stubbornly refused to allow an election that might allow someone else a turn – had made him the most powerful man in the University. The Chancellor, who should have been in charge, was a mere figurehead, there to take the blame when things went wrong.

  ‘Well?’ Michael asked.

  Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, what can you tell me about Elvesmere? It was I who sent you to Winwick Hall, if you recall, and who will pay you threepence for it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was stabbed at some unknown location, then dragged to the College latrine. Poor Elvesmere. He would have been mortified to know what had been done to him.’

  Michael stared at him in horror. ‘Stabbed? You mean murdered? And it did not occur to you to tell me immediately?’ He waved away Bartholomew’s sheepish apology. ‘Stabbed by whom?’

  ‘The killer left nothing to incriminate himself, Brother. All I can say is that the wound would not have been instantly fatal.’

  ‘Could you have saved him, had you been called at once?’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘The blade punctured a lung. At least, I assume it did. It is impossible to be sure without looking inside him.’

  ‘Then we shall accept your educated guess,’ said Michael briskly, well aware of his friend’s controversial views on the art of anatomy. ‘Could you deduce anything else? Such as whether Elvesmere knew his assailant?’

  ‘Of course not! However, there were no signs of a struggle, which means that either his killer attacked without warning, or Elvesmere did not consider him a threat.’