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

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Suttone, his shocked voice cutting through Thelnetham’s waspish retort. ‘How will we buy food, fuel and teaching supplies? Or pay the servants?’

  ‘Easily,’ replied Hemmysby. ‘We shall forfeit our stipends.’

  Bartholomew was appalled. He had no other income, given that most of his patients could not afford to pay him, and while he was not concerned for himself, it would mean an end to free medicine for a sizeable proportion of the town’s poor. He had thought his troubles on this front were over when he had been left some money by his brother-in-law, but it had been needed to repair the wall roof after a violent storm, leaving him as impecunious as over.

  ‘That is very kind,’ said Langelee wretchedly. ‘But our stipends have gone, too. We have five marks due in tithes from our church in Cheadle, along with fees from those students who have not yet arrived. And that is all. We shall have nothing more until Christmas. Nothing!’

  There was a dismayed silence.

  ‘Then I had better see about catching the thief,’ said Michael eventually.

  ‘How?’ asked Langelee in despair. ‘Nearly every College and decent home in Cambridge has been burgled over the last two weeks, and you have told me countless times that the thief leaves no clues. This is just one in a long chain of crimes.’

  ‘Potmoor,’ said Thelnetham, shooting Bartholomew a disagreeable glance. ‘We all know he is the culprit. You must arrest him at once, Michael.’

  ‘I have arrested him,’ said the monk crossly. ‘But with no actual proof that he is guilty, I was forced to let him go again.’

  ‘But Potmoor is a wealthy man,’ said Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not see him demeaning himself by clambering through windows in the dead of night.’

  ‘Well, he does,’ retorted Michael. ‘He is always braying that he likes to hone the expertise he acquired as a novice felon. It is a point of honour to him that he can still burgle a house with all the skill of Lucifer. And if you do not believe me, ask him. He will not deny it.’

  ‘It is true, Matt,’ said Hemmysby. ‘He claims he would never ask his henchmen to do anything he cannot manage himself, and he is reputed to be one of the most able housebreakers the shire has ever seen.’

  ‘And his henchmen are nearly as talented,’ added Langelee glumly. ‘Even if he is innocent, the chances are that one of them is responsible – with or without his blessing.’

  Michael took a deep breath. ‘So let us see what we know about the crime he committed against us. Who was down here last?’

  ‘Me,’ replied Langelee. ‘I collected the fees from Bartholomew’s new medics after supper last night, and I came to put them in what I thought was a safe place. The hutch was here, whole and intact. And before you ask, yes I was careful to lock up again afterwards.’

  ‘He was,’ interjected Cynric. ‘I came down here with him, to hold the lamp.’

  ‘Did anyone see or hear anything unusual after that time?’ asked Michael.

  Everyone shook their heads, and Langelee closed his eyes in despair. ‘So it is no different from all the other burglaries – executed with a ruthlessly brilliant efficiency that shows the perpetrator to be a felon of some distinction.’

  ‘Potmoor,’ put in Thelnetham a second time. ‘And we all know it.’

  ‘We shall have to keep this quiet,’ said Suttone worriedly. ‘If our students think we cannot supply what they have paid for, they will demand a refund so they can go elsewhere. When we fail to oblige, we will lose our charter. This must stay between us.’

  ‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘One of them might have seen something that will help us identify the culprit, but to find out, we shall have to ask questions. We cannot do that without revealing what has happened.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So I suggest a compromise: we admit that the hutch has gone, but the loss of all the College’s money and deeds will remain our secret.’

  ‘How long can we last without funds?’ asked Hemmysby. ‘I know we have enough fuel for a few weeks, because I bought some in August, but what about food? If we have any more nuts, we should sell them. They will fetch a good price at the market, and they are a silly extravagance anyway – I cannot abide the things.’

  ‘We had the last of them today,’ replied William, who was a regular visitor to the kitchen and its stores. ‘But we have peas and beans for a month. The hens will stop laying soon, so I suggest we eat them and—’

  ‘No!’ said Clippesby fiercely. He had one of the birds in his arms, and he hugged her protectively. ‘There is nothing wrong with living on vegetables and grain for a while.’

  ‘I am not giving up meat,’ stated Michael. ‘I would rather go naked.’

  ‘Let us hope it does not come to that,’ said Thelnetham, shuddering at the prospect. ‘However, I can dine in the Gilbertine Priory, so I am not concerned about food. What does worry me is the loss of the deeds that prove we own our churches and manors.’

  ‘I shall forge replacements,’ determined Michael, ignoring the blatant selfishness of Thelnetham’s remark. ‘And we will just have to brazen it out if anyone challenges them.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said William. ‘No one will question our probity.’

  ‘Someone might question yours,’ muttered Thelnetham, eyeing the grimy Franciscan in distaste. ‘Then we shall all be exposed as liars.’

  ‘You have not seen the high quality of Michael’s forgeries,’ said Hemmysby with a smile, speaking before William could respond. ‘They will convince even the most distrustful of sceptics.’

  ‘I blame Winwick Hall, personally,’ said William. ‘The town hates the idea of another College, while our fellow scholars are suspicious of a place that has been founded with such unseemly haste. Someone has burgled us in revenge.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ said Thelnetham impatiently. ‘Why pick on us?’

  ‘Because the Senior Proctor lives here,’ explained William. ‘And he runs the University. They think he brought Winwick into being, even though we know he is innocent.’

  ‘It is possible,’ sighed Hemmysby soberly. ‘Winwick Hall has caused a lot of resentment. Perhaps someone has decided to punish us for Michael’s role in bringing it into being.’

  Thoroughly rattled, Langelee organised a more systematic search of the College and its grounds to ensure that a student had not hidden the chest as a prank, leaving Michael to question the other two hutch managers. The monk spoke to Thelnetham and William in the cellar, while Bartholomew prowled with a lamp, looking for clues and listening with half an ear to the discussion.

  ‘When did you last see the Stanton Hutch?’ Michael asked them.

  ‘In July,’ replied William promptly. ‘We have had no requests for loans since then, so there has been no need to look at it.’

  ‘I saw it last week.’ Thelnetham regarded William coolly. ‘I take my responsibilities seriously, even if you do not. I check regularly to ensure it is safe.’

  ‘I did not think it was necessary,’ countered William. ‘We never had trouble with thieves before you arrived. Yet you must get the money from somewhere to pay for your fripperies…’

  ‘I inspected the chest six days ago – Tuesday,’ said Thelnetham to Michael, not gracing the accusation with a response. ‘I did not open it, but it was in its usual spot. However, it occurred to me then that it was vulnerable – Langelee keeps the key to the cellar in his quarters, which he often leaves unattended. It would not be difficult for someone to walk in and take it.’

  ‘We have a good porter,’ objected William. ‘He repels anyone he does not know.’

  ‘That assumes the thief came from outside,’ Thelnetham pointed out. ‘But if that were true, how did he know where to find the key? And the door was opened with a key, because there would be scratch marks on the lock if it had been forced or picked, and there are none.’

  Bartholomew stopped prowling to stare at him. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that a member of College is responsible.�
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  ‘It is an unpleasant notion, I know,’ replied the Gilbertine. ‘But the reality is that the culprit knew exactly how to get in.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘No one here would do such a thing.’

  Michael asked a few more questions, then nodded to say that William and Thelnetham could go. They bickered as they went, their haranguing voices echoing as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘Actually, Thelnetham makes a good point,’ said Michael when it was quiet again. ‘No stranger would be aware of the fact that Langelee keeps the cellar key in his room.’

  ‘Thieves can be cunning and determined,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘One might have been planning this invasion for weeks, gathering information and watching what we do. Moreover, our porter is effective when he is at the gate, but what happens when he does his rounds?’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And I am much happier with the notion of the culprit being a stranger than a viper from within. However, we must remember that a lot of new students have enrolled this term, and we do not know them yet.’

  ‘Their seniors will keep them in order,’ said Bartholomew firmly.

  Michael nodded, but did not look convinced. ‘I know you are busy, but I shall need your help with this. No, do not argue! How will you physick your paupers if you have no stipend to spend on medicine? Your best hope is to help me catch the culprit before he squanders it all. Then you might still be paid.’

  Bartholomew gave his reluctant assent, wondering whether Lawrence would agree to treat more of the town’s needy until the situation was resolved. And the lectures he had to prepare for the coming term and his daily visits to Edith? He supposed he would just have to forgo more sleep.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘We shall start by speaking to our colleagues, to see if they have remembered anything new now that they have had time to reflect.’

  Clippesby, Suttone and Hemmysby were in the conclave. The Dominican still held the hen, a feisty bird who chased any cat or dog that dared trespass in her domain, and who ruled the other fowl with a beak of iron. She was gentle with Clippesby, though, and her eyes were closed as she dozed on his lap.

  ‘I noticed nothing odd.’ Hemmysby ran a hand through his bushy hair. ‘I forgot we owned the thing, to tell you the truth. I do not manage a hutch, so I never think about them.’

  ‘I saw Thelnetham go down to the cellar last Tuesday,’ supplied Suttone. His plump face was troubled. ‘I hope he did not take it, aiming to have William blamed. I would not put it past him. I wish they would end this silly feud. Such rancour is hardly seemly for men in holy orders.’

  ‘Are you sure none of you saw anything unusual?’ pressed Michael desperately. ‘Clippesby? What about your animal friends?’

  The Dominican had a habit of sitting quietly to commune with nature, which meant he often saw things not intended for his eyes. His observations had helped with enquiries in the past, although the intelligence he provided invariably required careful decoding.

  ‘No,’ he replied, uncharacteristically terse. ‘Or I would have said the first time you asked.’

  Although Michael and Bartholomew spent the rest of the day asking questions of Fellows, students and servants, they learned nothing useful. Everyone was shocked by the news, especially when they heard that the Stanton Cup had gone, too, and Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of eventually confessing that the College’s entire fortune had disappeared into the bargain.

  At sunset, he went to visit Edith. She lived in a pleasant manor in the nearby village of Trumpington, but since her bereavement, she had preferred to stay at the handsome, stone-built house on Milne Street, from which the family cloth business was run. Bartholomew was glad, feeling its lively bustle was better for her than the quiet serenity of the countryside.

  Edith was in the solar, a comfortable room with thick rugs on the floor, and a warm, homely aroma of herbs and fresh bread. Lamps were lit, which imparted a cosy golden glow. She and Bartholomew were unmistakably siblings: both had dark eyes and black hair, although her locks now had a significant sprinkling of silver. He experienced a surge of mixed emotions when he saw Richard was with her – pleasure, because he was fond of his nephew; irritation, because he could see that Edith was upset.

  ‘She has found a box of Father’s personal documents, and aims to paw through them,’ Richard explained sulkily, when Bartholomew commented on the icy atmosphere. ‘It is not right.’

  Bartholomew studied his nephew meditatively, trying to see in the man who lounged by the hearth the fresh-faced, carefree boy he had known. Soft living had furnished Richard with an unflattering chubbiness, while his eyes had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He wore his hair long, but the style did not suit him, and made him look seedy. Despite his arrogant confidence, Richard was not a good lawyer, and although he had secured a series of lucrative posts, he had kept none of them for long. The most recent had been with the Earl of Suffolk, where there had been a scandal involving a pregnant daughter. A considerable sum of money had been required to appease the outraged baron.

  ‘Of course it is right,’ said Edith irritably. ‘Some might be unpaid bills, or other matters that require my attention.’

  ‘They won’t – Zachary says so,’ Richard shot back.

  ‘Zachary is not in charge,’ countered Edith coolly. ‘I am. And besides, you neglected to mention that I found this box in the garden, atop a small fire – which the culprit had neglected to mind, so its contents were undamaged. Zachary denies putting it there, so perhaps Oswald…’

  ‘If it had been Oswald, surely you would have found it before now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘While Zachary is not the sort of man to burn someone else’s documents.’

  ‘Well, he seems to have had a go at these,’ said Richard sullenly. He turned back to his mother. ‘But it is not for you to paw through them. They might be nothing to do with the business, and pertain to my part of the inheritance.’

  ‘In which case I shall pass them on to you,’ said Edith, exasperated. ‘Now, did you mention that you were going out this evening?’

  Richard saw the defiant jut of her chin, and evidently realised that this was a confrontation he would not win, because he grabbed his cloak and stalked out. Bartholomew watched him go, sorry the easy friendship they had once enjoyed was lost. Richard considered him dull company compared to his London cronies, and the rare evenings they spent together were strained affairs with each struggling to find common ground for conversation.

  ‘He looks well,’ he remarked, after the door had been slammed closed.

  Edith pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He looks like what he is – someone with too much money and too many dissolute companions eager to help him spend it. To be honest, I have no desire to trawl through that chest, but the fact that he tried to stop me … Indeed, I cannot help but wonder whether he was the one who tried to destroy them.’

  ‘Do you want me to do it?’ The prospect did not fill Bartholomew with enthusiasm, and would be yet another demand on his precious time, but there was little he would not do for Edith.

  She shook her head. ‘I wish Oswald were here, though. He would know how to handle Richard. I wake up each morning thinking it has all been a bad dream, and that he is still alive.’

  ‘Me, too,’ admitted Bartholomew.

  ‘His death … I know we have discussed it ad nauseam, Matt, but I am sure there was something amiss. Why did he die of marsh fever? His previous attacks were never very serious.’

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Bartholomew, as he had done many times before. ‘I was not there.’

  ‘No,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘You were off running errands with Michael in Peterborough when he needed you. If you had been in Cambridge, Oswald would still be alive.’

  While Bartholomew knew that Edith’s words were born of grief, they still hurt, and he returned to Michaelhouse with a heavy heart. He doubted his presence at Oswald’s deathbed would have made any difference, given Rougham’s account of wh
at had happened, but he still wished he had been there. While his colleagues slept, he sat in the conclave working on his lectures, aiming to distract himself from the guilt of failing Edith during the darkest hours of her life.

  Michael arrived after a fruitless evening investigating Elvesmere’s murder, and immediately began forging deeds. He gave up when the words began to blur before his eyes, leaving Bartholomew slumped across the table, fast asleep. It was an uncomfortable position, and the physician woke with a stiff neck and backache when the bell rang for Mass the following dawn.

  It was a subdued College that attended church. The only person who seemed unaffected by Michaelhouse’s desperate predicament was Goodwyn, the new medical student, who sang lustily and wore a smug grin through the entire rite. Michael homed in on him when the service was over.

  ‘I am dissatisfied with your explanation regarding your whereabouts for the time of the theft,’ he said briskly. ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘You cannot remember that far back?’ quipped the student with breezy insolence. ‘Shall I mix you a remedy for senile forgetfulness, then?’

  ‘That remark has cost you sixpence, payable by the end of the day.’ Michael held up an authoritative hand when a startled Goodwyn started to object. ‘It is expensive to annoy the Senior Proctor, so I recommend you curb your tongue. Now, to business. The hutch was stolen between nine o’clock on Sunday evening, when Langelee visited the cellar, and yesterday at noon, when Cynric discovered it missing. Where were you during all that time?’

  ‘Doctor Bartholomew set us a lot of reading on Sunday, sir,’ said Aungel, before Goodwyn could land himself in deeper trouble by arguing. ‘And it took us until supper to finish. Afterwards, we were restless after being cooped up all day so we went for a walk. We returned to Michaelhouse just as the bells rang for compline.’

  ‘Then we played dice … I mean we read our bibles until Doctor Bartholomew came back from seeing a patient,’ continued Goodwyn. Gambling was forbidden in College, on the grounds that it led to fights. ‘He will testify that we were all there – and that we stayed until morning. After that, we went to church, had breakfast, and read in the hall with the other Fellows.’