Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 8

  ‘Meanwhile, there is something decidedly sinister about that gently smiling Lawrence. And he is a medicus – trained at Oxford, no less. I am sure they taught him how to ply a knife.’

  ‘Nonsense, Brother,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Lawrence is a good man. Besides, whoever wielded the dagger was not an expert – Elvesmere took some time to die.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Michael’s tone of voice made it clear he disagreed. ‘Nerli is a strong candidate, too. He is sensitive about his foreign qualifications, and he has a black and dangerous look about him. In fact, Langelee thinks he is a soldier, not a scholar at all.’

  ‘What about Bon?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I cannot imagine he was pleased to be reminded of his illegitimacy, especially if he and Elvesmere were supposed to be friends.’

  ‘His bastardy has been nullified by papal dispensation – I have seen the documents myself. I doubt Elvesmere’s remarks meant anything to him. Besides, I imagine a blind man would be at a severe disadvantage in a killing.’

  ‘Hypochyma,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Rougham and Lawrence will tell you that it is caused by corrupt humours collecting in the locus vacuus between the pupil and the eye, but my Arab master said it was because pigments accumulate on the lens, thus preventing light from—’

  ‘This may not be the best time to air controversial opinions, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Not with royal and papal ears alert for any hint of heresy – we do not want Michaelhouse to suffer the same fate as Linton Hall. And your unorthodox views are immaterial to our discussion anyway, which is that Bon cannot see, so committing murder would be something of a challenge. Especially one that involved lugging bodies around, given that you say Elvesmere was killed elsewhere.’

  ‘And I am sure that is what happened, which may be enough to exonerate all the Winwick men. If the body was moved, why not take it away from the College altogether?’

  ‘Perhaps the killer panicked, or did not want to risk going out with a corpse. My beadles have been assiduous in their patrols of late, because of all the new students who flock to join us.’

  ‘Then perhaps that is where we should be looking for a culprit – at the matriculands.’

  ‘It is possible … Oh, Lord! Here comes Cynric, and I can tell from the expression on his face that he has unpleasant news. I hope it has nothing to do with Michaelhouse.’

  ‘You have been summoned, I am afraid,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘By Dickon Tulyet, who has been bitten by a horse.’

  Michael backed away. ‘We are friends, Matt, but there are limits to what I will do for you, and helping with Dickon is well past them. I am afraid you must confront the little beast alone.’

  ‘Sheriff Tulyet should have taken Dickon with him when he went to London,’ said Cynric as the monk departed with impressive speed for a man his size. ‘His son is Satan’s spawn, and should not have been left for his mother to manage on her own.’

  There was a time when Bartholomew would have defended Dickon, but he had suffered far too much at the child’s vengeful hands to bother. Dickon was the Sheriff’s only son, a strapping lad who looked older than his nine or ten years. His father doted on him, although his mother had begun to recognise his faults. Dickon terrorised other children and the household servants, and even the grizzled veterans at the castle were wary of him. For a juvenile, he was a formidable figure.

  ‘Perhaps he stole the Stanton Hutch,’ suggested Bartholomew, aware that he was dragging his feet. He had good reason: treating Dickon was dangerous, as the boy was prone to kick, bite, punch and scratch. Worse yet, his misguided father had recently given him a sword.

  ‘And killed Felbrigge and Elvesmere,’ nodded Cynric. He was outspoken for a servant, confident in the knowledge that he was indispensable, and a friend into the bargain. ‘I would not put it past the brute. Would you like a charm to ward him off?’

  Bartholomew declined, suspecting his priestly colleagues would have something to say if he was seen sporting pagan talismans. Cynric was the most superstitious man in Cambridge, and crucifixes and pilgrim badges jostled for space on his person with ‘magic’ ingredients tied in little leather bags around his neck. Bartholomew noticed that there were more of them than usual.

  ‘Because of the evil that I sense will soon befall us,’ the book-bearer explained matter-of-factly. ‘It is an inevitability with all these strangers wandering around our town.’

  ‘They want to be students,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing sinister about them.’

  ‘I beg to differ. Then there is Potmoor, who is more wicked than ever now he thinks he is destined for Heaven. There are rumours that he killed Felbrigge, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard them, but Michael tells me that he has an alibi for the shooting – he was with his son and several henchmen. Besides, that was before he rose from the— before he was ill.’

  ‘He would not have bloodied his own hands,’ said Cynric scornfully. ‘He would have ordered one of his minions to oblige him. God knows, he has enough of them.’

  CHAPTER 3

  It was a market day, and as Bartholomew headed towards his ordeal with Dickon, he could hear the familiar clamour of commerce echoing through the streets: the cry of vendors hawking their wares, the clatter of iron-shod cartwheels on cobbles, and the heavier trundle of wagons carrying bulk goods to and from the wharves by the river. The taverns were busy, too, and beadles were out in force, ousting those drinkers who were students. Trouble arose when the matriculands challenged the beadles’ authority to give them orders, and more than one inn rang with acrimonious voices.

  As Bartholomew passed the jumble of houses known as The Jewry, he glanced, as always, at the cottage that had once belonged to Matilde, the love of his life. He had been tardy in asking her to marry him, which had led to her leaving Cambridge one fine spring morning. He had spent months searching for her, travelling to every place she had ever mentioned. He had failed to find her, but had recently discovered that she had not gone as far away as he had believed. Their paths had crossed, and she had made a vague promise of a future together.

  As always when he thought of her, he experienced a sharp stab of loss, although the feeling was now tempered by confusion. He had believed he would never love another woman, but that was before he had met Julitta, wife of the town’s only surgeon.

  He was perplexed by the emotions that assailed him. Neither woman was available, as one had disappeared again and the other was married, but that did not stop him pondering which one he should choose. Until that summer, he would have picked Matilde, but their recent encounter – if it could be called that; he had been asleep at the time, and he was still hurt that she had opted to communicate by letter rather than wait for him to wake – had opened his eyes to flaws in her character he had not known she possessed. She and Julitta were on a much more even footing in his mind now, so it was perhaps fortunate that neither was clamouring for an immediate answer.

  He was obliged to watch his step when he reached Bridge Street, to navigate the chaos of ruts outside St Clement’s Church. When he looked up again, his spirits soared: Julitta was walking towards him. He smiled – until he saw she was with her husband. All thoughts of an enjoyable tête-à-tête fled, and he glanced around for a suitable hiding place. Then he reminded himself that he was a senior scholar, and should not be scuttling down alleys to avoid uncomfortable meetings.

  The Holms were a handsome couple, and as Julitta had inherited a fortune from her father, which allowed them to buy whatever clothes took their fancy, they were beautifully attired. Her money also meant that Holm did not have to work, and he had been quick to pare down his practice in order to concentrate on what he considered to be his true vocation – inventing patent medicines. So far, he had marketed a powder to cure baldness and a method for dislodging kidney stones, both of which had been spectacular failures. Even so, there was arrogance in his stride – his disappointments in the world of healing had done nothing to temper his high opini
on of himself.

  Julitta wore a blue kirtle that matched her remarkable eyes. Her long, silky hair was in a plait, an unusual style for a married woman, but one that suited her. She had adored her pretty husband when they had first been wed, but it had not taken many nights before the cold truth had dawned. Her happy innocence was replaced by something graver and wiser, but she declined to let Holm’s preferences dismay her. She had simply turned to Bartholomew for comfort, although she retained a touching devotion towards the surgeon that Bartholomew felt Holm did not deserve.

  ‘Have you heard what people are saying about you, physician?’ Holm asked with a smirk. ‘That you used witchcraft to snatch Potmoor from Hell.’

  ‘Will is right, Matt,’ said Julitta worriedly. ‘You made no friends when you saved him.’

  ‘I had no idea that smelling salts could be so potent,’ Holm went on. ‘I bought a bottle from Eyer the apothecary afterwards, but he says the one he sold you must have been different from his usual brews, as sal ammoniac does not usually restore life to corpses.’

  ‘Potmoor was not dead,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘As you know perfectly well – you were there. And when we discussed catalepsia later, you said you had witnessed several cases of it.’

  ‘That was before accusations of necromancy started to fly about, so I have reappraised my memory in the interests of personal safety. However, I would not mind owning the sal ammoniac you used on Potmoor. Will you sell it to me? It might come in useful.’

  ‘Useful for what, Will?’ asked Julitta uneasily. ‘You are not thinking of restoring life to corpses yourself, are you?’

  ‘Not I,’ averred Holm. ‘But I still conduct surgery on one or two favoured patients, and a more pungent mixture might help to rouse them when things do not go quite according to plan.’

  ‘I threw it away,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Rank superstition had led him to toss the little pot in the College midden – a ridiculous fear that the smelling salts might indeed have held some diabolical power.

  ‘That was wise,’ said Julitta, although Holm looked disgusted. Then she smiled and changed the subject. ‘We are summoned to yet another urgent gathering of the Guild of Saints. There are a great many of them these days, most requiring speedy decisions about money.’

  Like many social and religious fraternities in Cambridge, the Guild of Saints not only accepted women as members, but encouraged them to take an active role in its running. Willing and efficient ladies like Julitta – and Edith before she had been lumbered with her husband’s business – were kept extremely busy with its various undertakings.

  ‘It is tiresome,’ said Holm sulkily. ‘And making beggars happy is a waste of time, if you ask me, although I must say I enjoy the Guild’s monthly feasts.’

  ‘Perhaps this meeting is to discuss the role Winwick Hall will play in the University’s beginning of term ceremony next week,’ Julitta went on, ignoring him.

  ‘Really?’ Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would your friends be interested in that? It is a University matter, and none of the Guild’s concern.’

  ‘Our members have given Winwick Hall a lot of money,’ explained Julitta. ‘So we have a say in what it does and when.’

  ‘The other scholars hate us having such influence over a foundation that will soon belong to their studium generale,’ gloated Holm. ‘And next week’s ceremony is just the start. Winwick will soon be the largest College in Cambridge, and by controlling it, we shall control the University.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ murmured Julitta, squeezing Bartholomew’s hand as her husband strutted away. ‘He is in a bad mood because he had a row with Hugo Potmoor. It was over the Michaelhouse Choir if you can believe it.’

  The choir in question was Michael’s concern, a body of spectacularly untalented individuals who attended practices solely for the free bread and ale afterwards. They had a reputation for performances so loud that they could be heard miles away, and Bartholomew had never understood why Michael, an accomplished musician, steadfastly refused to accept that they were a lost cause.

  ‘Michael wants to use them in the ceremony,’ Julitta elaborated. ‘Hugo thinks it is an excellent idea, but Will has heard them sing. Will does not want to argue with the son of a man who is … well, suffice to say, I should not like to cross a Potmoor.’

  Bartholomew continued his journey, wishing with all his heart that Julitta’s father had not betrothed her to Holm. Then he would have wed her, and Matilde would not have re-entered his life to create such a turmoil of conflicting feelings. Of course, it would have meant giving up the teaching he loved, as scholars were not permitted to marry. Then a vision of Goodwyn came to mind, along with all the lectures he needed to prepare, and a change of career suddenly seemed rather appealing.

  He arrived to find the Tulyet house in uproar, which was not uncommon when Dickon had hurt himself – he was the kind of lad who wanted everyone else to suffer, too. The servants had retreated to the back of the house for safety, and Dickon himself was in the kitchen, bawling at the top of his very considerable voice.

  ‘Dickon, please!’ his mother was begging. ‘What will your father think when he hears about the fuss you have made?’

  ‘He will have forgotten by the time he comes home,’ yelled Dickon. He had thick, heavy features, and bore no resemblance to either of his slim, graceful parents; it was widely believed that his mother had entertained the Devil the night he had been conceived. ‘Which might be weeks yet. He said so in the last letter he wrote to you – the one you keep in your little purple box.’

  ‘You poked about in my personal things?’ cried Mistress Tulyet, shocked. ‘Dickon!’

  ‘Go away!’ howled the boy when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Or I shall stab you with my sword.’

  The weapon was on the table, and the physician’s lunge towards it was marginally quicker than Dickon’s. The boy’s eyes widened in fury when he saw the blade in the hands of his opponent.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he ordered between gritted teeth.

  ‘Behave yourself, Dickon,’ commanded his mother. Her voice was so unsteady with shock and distress that it carried scant conviction. ‘Or I shall tell Deputy de Stannell.’

  The boy sneered. ‘He is not a real soldier. He pretends to be like Father, but he cannot even ride. I watched him all last night in the castle – he is taking secret lessons from Sergeant Helbye, so he will not make an ass of himself when he sits on a horse in town processions.’

  ‘You should have been in bed,’ said Mistress Tulyet weakly. ‘And what have I told you about spying on people?’

  Needless to say, Dickon was unmoved by the reprimand. ‘It was fun. The lesson started at midnight, and finished at dawn. Poor Helbye was exhausted by the end of it, although de Stannell still cannot ride. But what can you expect from a man who looks like a monkey?’

  ‘He is very good at administration,’ said Mistress Tulyet, somewhat feebly. ‘And that is more important than horsemanship while your father is away.’

  Tiring of the discussion, Dickon made a grab for the sword, obliging Bartholomew to raise it above his head where it could not be reached. He felt ridiculous, like a statue of Neptune wrestling a sea-serpent he had once seen in Rome, and he laughed out loud. Dickon regarded him with small, malevolent eyes, then sat down suddenly and presented his damaged hand. Bartholomew examined it cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the weapon, knowing the boy intended to retrieve it at the first opportunity. If Dickon succeeded, blood would be spilled – and it would not be his own.

  As usual, the injury was superficial, and would have been disregarded by most children. Still on his guard, Bartholomew smeared it with a soothing paste.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘The horse bit me,’ pouted Dickon, submitting more readily to Bartholomew’s ministrations once he realised it was not going to hurt. ‘And I am going to shoot it in revenge.’

  ‘No, you are not,’ said Mistress Tulyet sharply. ‘You bit it first.’
>
  ‘He bit a horse?’ blurted Bartholomew.

  ‘It was looking at me,’ said Dickon. ‘Can I have my sword back now?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, and because Mistress Tulyet looked pale and tired, he mixed a mild soporific that would send Dickon to sleep and give her a few hours’ respite. He was not in the habit of drugging children, but Mistress Tulyet was also his patient, and her health was just as important as her hellion son’s. ‘Drink this and go to bed.’

  ‘I shall not,’ said Dickon, folding his arms sulkily. ‘I am not thirsty.’

  Bartholomew was good with children, and rarely had trouble persuading them to take what he prescribed. Dickon was the exception, and the physician was ashamed of the dislike the boy always engendered in him. He was just trying to decide whether to let Dickon go without a battle, or stick to his guns and pour the medicine down the brat’s throat, when Edith walked in.

  ‘I heard there had been a mishap,’ she said. ‘So I came to help.’

  ‘You are not wanted here,’ snarled Dickon rudely. ‘Go away.’

  Bartholomew gripped the sword rather tightly. While he did not care what Dickon said to him, his beloved sister was another matter altogther, and he was about to say so when she stepped forward.

  ‘Is this Dickon’s medicine?’ she asked, picking up the cup from the table.

  ‘To make him better,’ replied Mistress Tulyet, and Bartholomew was not sure whether he heard or imagined the murmured ‘if only that were possible’ that followed.

  ‘Then drink it,’ said Edith, holding it out. When Dickon hesitated, her expression became forbidding, and Bartholomew had a sudden flash of memory back to his own childhood, when some youthful prank had displeased her. ‘Or there will be trouble.’

  Intimidated by the steel in her voice, Dickon accepted the cup and sipped the mixture. He pulled a face and opened his mouth to complain, but Edith raised an authoritative forefinger, which was enough to see the potion swallowed and the cup set meekly back on the table.