Death of a Scholar

Chapter 8

It was late afternoon before Bartholomew was free again. Irritated by the encounter with Lawrence, Michael took him straight to Winwick Hall, where they began the tortuous business of persuading the porter that they had legitimate business inside. Jekelyn was encouraged in his insolence by Uyten, the thick-eared student who acted as Bon’s guide. The lad was newly missing his front teeth, and Bartholomew recalled that Goodwyn had mentioned them being punched out during a skirmish in the Griffin.

‘I hail from our founder’s birthplace,’ he lisped, although neither Bartholomew nor Michael had asked. ‘He invited me to study with Master Bon, as he believes I shall be a great asset to him at Court one day. He has promised to make me a College prefect next year.’

‘The nepotism begins,’ murmured Michael. ‘Cambridge will soon be full of men whom John Winwick wants groomed to support him.’

Bartholomew stopped in surprise as he entered the courtyard. It heaved with students, and he could tell by the amount of baggage they had brought that most were wealthy. They were moving into the dormitory on the top floor of the hall, and there was a gale of laughter when a stair collapsed under the press of feet, sending one lad tumbling into the arms of his cronies.

‘We have forty students already,’ gloated Uyten. ‘And Illesy plans to take even more.’

‘Where will they all sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned.

Uyten shot him a superior look. ‘In the hall and the Fellows’ rooms. We have lots of space, and will soon be bigger than all the other Colleges combined. Moreover, our founder has pledged extra money for accommodation next year.’

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Michael, watching Uyten go over to issue bullying orders to a handful of arrogant young men who clearly resented the impertinence. ‘King’s Hall told me today that they fear losing their status as largest and wealthiest College. I told them they had nothing to worry about. Perhaps I was wrong.’

‘Or perhaps you weren’t,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘I am sure the hall roof was straighter when I was last here, and you just saw that stair give way. Maybe the place will tumble about their ears before its members’ ambitions are realised.’

‘The building is just settling. The ground is soft, and all structures shift when they are raised in this part of the town. You should see the angle on Gonville’s chapel.’

‘There is Eyer,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the pink-faced apothecary emerge from the hall and weave his way through the students. ‘We can ask how much dormirella Holm bought.’

‘Here,’ said Eyer, dropping a flask of poppy juice into Bartholomew’s bag as he passed. ‘Young Aungel told me that Goodwyn used all yours in an experiment, and no physician should be without such a basic weapon in his armoury.’

‘But I cannot pay–’ began Bartholomew.

‘Consider it a gift for the poor.’ Eyer held up his hand when Bartholomew began to ask his question. ‘Later, Matt. Bon was in urgent need of a poultice for his eyes, and I had to abandon my shop to bring it. Come to see me when you have finished here. Perhaps we can dine together.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although the flash of surprise in Eyer’s eyes said the monk had not been included in the invitation. ‘We shall be there shortly.’

Provost Illesy and three of his Fellows – Ratclyf was missing – were in the parlura, enjoying warmed wine and Lombard slices. As these were Michael’s favourites, he helped himself. Illesy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the liberty, Nerli scowled, and Lawrence smiled affably. Bon sensed something was happening, and turned his head this way and that as he attempted to determine what.

‘It is unmannerly to foist yourself on another College and start scoffing its comestibles,’ said Nerli in his oddly accented Latin. ‘Or is such behaviour encouraged in Michaelhouse?’

‘He is welcome to share.’ Lawrence smiled sweetly, showing red lips through his white beard. ‘So is Matthew. Come, both of you, and sit by the fire. There is a nasty nip in the air today.’

‘Have you caught Elvesmere’s killer?’ asked Illesy, leaning back in his chair and drumming beringed fingers on the table. ‘I hope so. It has now been three days since we had the terrible shock of finding his body in the latrine.’

‘I know,’ said Michael, equally curt. ‘And considerable progress has been made.’

‘Good,’ said Nerli, although Bartholomew thought the response lacked enthusiasm.

‘You asked us to tell you if we remembered anything else that might help,’ said Lawrence. ‘So I have been thinking about Elvesmere’s last evening. He complained of a headache. Perhaps that is why he left the College and ended up stabbed – he went out in search of fresh air.’

‘How do you know he was killed outside the College?’ pounced Michael. Lawrence frowned, but had no answer, so Michael asked his next question. ‘Where is Ratclyf?’

‘Ill,’ explained Nerli. ‘He drank too much wine last night, and is suffering the consequences.’

‘He indulged himself with claret because he mourns Elvesmere,’ said Lawrence, shooting the Florentine an admonishing glance.

‘Actually, he was more distressed about the fact that Hemmysby mauled him at the debate,’ countered Nerli. ‘He did not comport himself very skilfully, and was ashamed of his performance.’

‘As well he should be,’ muttered Illesy sourly. ‘He should not have opened his mouth if he had nothing intelligent to say.’

‘Elvesmere,’ prompted Nerli. ‘What progress have you made exactly, Brother?’

‘Quite a bit,’ hedged the monk. ‘But we shall resolve the matter much more quickly if you answer a few questions. Shall we begin with the Guild of Saints? I understand you are all members.’

‘It is a perk of being Fellows here,’ explained Illesy, although with obvious irritation that he was to be interrogated yet again. ‘It has some lovely people, but also some dreadful villains.’

‘Your old employer, Potmoor, being the greatest of them,’ put in Nerli acidly. ‘And Stanmore being another.’

‘You knew Oswald?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across Illesy’s indignant objection to the remark. ‘I thought he died before you arrived.’

‘We came a month before he passed away,’ explained Lawrence. ‘Winwick Hall did not exist then, of course, but our founder wanted us here anyway, to learn the lie of the land.’

‘Did you see him the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It happened not long after a Guild function.’

Nerli yawned. ‘I do not recall. It was weeks ago now.’

‘I remember,’ said Bon sullenly. ‘He accused me of taking a second goblet of wine before others had had their first. How was I supposed to know who had drunk what when I cannot see? Then he blathered on about the high tax on foreign wool. It was boring.’

‘He was explaining why he could not give the widows’ fund more money,’ said Lawrence, gently reproachful. ‘The King increased excise on imports, so he had less available cash.’

‘That was Knyt’s fault,’ said Nerli. ‘Stanmore usually smuggled his supplies through the Fens, but Knyt found out and told the Sheriff. A reception committee was waiting when Stanmore’s barge docked, so he was forced to pay his dues.’

‘Oswald was not a smuggler,’ said Bartholomew, although he spoke more from loyalty than conviction. Prudently, Michael changed the subject.

‘After yesterday’s debate, you chatted to the Chancellor, Rougham and–’

‘What does this have to do with catching Elvesmere’s killer?’ demanded Nerli.

‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Michael loftily. ‘It may adversely affect the outcome of my enquiries. However, I want to know whether Hemmysby ate cake from the same plate as you.’

‘What an extraordinary question!’ exclaimed Illesy. ‘Why should we answer that?’

‘The good Brother has told us why,’ said Lawrence quietly. ‘It is pertinent to his enquiries about Elvesmere. However, I cannot help. I never eat between meals, as it is bad for the digestion, so I did not notice who had what last night.’

‘I cannot help either,’ said Bon, turning his milky eyes towards the monk. ‘I had lots of fruitcake, marchpane and nuts, but I could not see the platters, let alone tell you who ate from them. However, I objected to Hemmysby joining us. He attacked me viciously in front of the entire University, then had the audacity to say it was nothing personal.’

‘It was not,’ said Nerli. ‘You just happen to have easily crushed views on apostolic poverty.’

‘It was Bon’s first time in the debating chamber,’ said Lawrence reprovingly. ‘And Ratclyf’s. Hemmysby should have been kinder to them both, and I told him so.’

‘You argued with him?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘It was not an argument,’ hedged Lawrence. ‘More an exchange of opinions. However, as he then died of a seizure, perhaps ill health led him to take such pleasure in humiliating others.’

‘I recall what Hemmysby ate,’ said Illesy acidly. ‘Three slices of cake, which was greedy. He said it was to make up for the fact that he refused the nuts and marchpane.’

‘Your sister made those pastries, Matthew,’ said Lawrence. ‘They were very nice, and we are grateful for her support. When we offered to provide refreshments, we assumed it would just be for those in the church, but every scholar who was hungry promptly announced an intention to descend on us.’

‘The debate ended very abruptly,’ mused Illesy. ‘We were taking it in turns to mind the food – we did not want to leave it unattended lest thieves struck. I had only been in the vestry for a few moments, but I poked my head out to see how the forum was going only to discover that Tynkell had declared it over – no summing up, no declaration of a winner, no vote of thanks to the participants. I was stunned.’

‘He was almost flattened in the ensuing race for victuals,’ added Bon. ‘With Michaelhouse being the quickest off the mark. Does your Master not feed you?’

‘Have you heard of a substance named dormirella?’ asked Michael, declining to dignify the question with a response.

‘Of course,’ replied Nerli. ‘Some of its active ingredients are used in tanning.’

‘Are you intimately acquainted with the process of leather-making, then?’ asked Michael.

‘It is general knowledge,’ replied the Florentine, although he blushed angrily, and his eyes became harder and blacker. ‘And I am widely read.’

‘Do your studies extend to the theory of swordplay?’ asked Bartholomew, aiming to make the surly Florentine admit to frolicking with Potmoor.

Temper flashed in Nerli’s eyes, but was quickly masked. ‘Are there books on the subject? I would not know. I have no interest in the matter.’

‘So you do not practise your martial skills with Potmoor?’

Nerli gazed at him. ‘I do not. What a ridiculous notion!’

Bartholomew was about to press the matter further when it occurred to him that Nerli might guess that it was Julitta who had mentioned it, and an interrogation might put her in danger. He desisted abruptly enough to make Nerli regard him with suspicion, but fortunately Michael was ready with another question.

‘Does anyone here own any dormirella?’

‘No,’ replied the Florentine, meeting his eyes steadily. ‘Why would we?’

‘I have never even heard of it,’ put in Lawrence.

‘Really?’ Bartholomew was surprised. ‘I thought you would have come across it at some point in your career.’

‘I do not have much use for poisons, Matthew.’ Lawrence smiled serenely.

‘If you have never heard of dormirella, how do you know it is a poison?’ pounced Michael.

‘Because Nerli said it is used in tanning,’ replied Lawrence genially. ‘And you do not employ mild substances in that grim and filthy business.’

‘I would not know,’ said Bon in distaste. ‘I remain aloof from such coarse matters.’

‘So do I,’ said Illesy. He stood. ‘And now if you will excuse us, there have been too many thumps and crashes from the dormitory upstairs. It is time we supervised our new charges.’

‘None of the Winwick men succeeded in removing themselves from my list of suspects,’ said Michael, once they were outside. ‘Indeed, Nerli’s answers won him a place at the top. Meanwhile, Bon and Ratclyf were offended by Hemmysby’s treatment of them at the debate, while Illesy is a close friend of Potmoor.’

‘Lawrence is a good man, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I could not have helped with your investigation if he had not taken on some of my paupers.’

‘I cannot agree, Matt. There is something about him that I do not like at all – a jarringly false note in that mask of amiability. And you know what is said about him and Queen Isabella. I imagine the tale is true, because what sort of man abandons a lucrative post at Court in order to teach law to a lot of ingrates?’

Bartholomew thought he was wrong, but did not want to argue. ‘Illesy said they all took turns to guard the food, which means they all had the opportunity to poison Hemmysby’s cake. But how could the culprit know that Hemmysby would be the one to eat it? Or do you think someone else was the intended victim?’

‘It was Winwick Hall’s food – its Fellows decided which plate went where. And let us not forget that none of them have an alibi for Elvesmere’s murder. They claim they were asleep, but no one can prove it. They all have a motive for wanting him dead, as he offended every one of them with his caustic tongue.’

‘Lawrence said Elvesmere had a headache, which could have been from eating dormirella.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Much as it galls me to admit it, I am beginning to appreciate that anatomy has its uses. I shall arrange for you to spend a few moments alone with Elvesmere tonight, and you can find out whether he ate cake, too. Like Hemmysby.’

‘No, Brother,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Besides, I am not sure it will be possible after so many days. These things liquefy, you know.’

Michael shuddered. ‘Just do your best. However, if I ever have the misfortune to die, I do not want you in my innards. My stomach contents are my own affair, thank you.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, amused by the fact that the monk seemed to regard death as optional. ‘We should visit Eyer now. Perhaps he will tell us that one of our suspects bought dormirella recently, and thus solve the case without the need for another dissection.’

‘You are here at last,’ beamed Eyer, his pink face breaking into a beam of pleasure as Bartholomew and Michael entered his shop. ‘Good! I am ravenous.’

‘What are we having?’ asked Michael keenly.

‘Snake,’ replied the apothecary. ‘There are many who shun reptile, but I find it a most wholesome meat. We shall have it with grass soup, which will set us up splendidly.’

‘I have just remembered that we are expected at Michaelhouse,’ gulped the monk. ‘What a pity. Incidentally, it was good of you to contribute victuals to the debate yesterday. Most generous.’

Eyer gestured towards a large sack of cobnuts. ‘I told the Winwick men to help themselves, and they sent a student around with a bowl. It was all I had available at such short notice, although I appreciate that the shells are a nuisance in polite company.’

‘Hemmysby would not have eaten those, Brother,’ whispered Bartholomew, when the apothecary went to baste the snakes that were roasting over the fire. ‘Remember, he did not like nuts. Besides, they could not have been poisoned while they were in their shells. At least, not easily.’

‘Do you have any dormirella for sale, Eyer?’ called Michael, determined to learn at least something useful from the visit.

Eyer turned to purse his lips. ‘Dormirella contains a mixture of potent ingredients that includes realgar, dwale and hemlock. It is very dangerous, and not something I sell to non-medical professionals. Why do you want it, Brother? Perhaps I can suggest a less toxic alternative.’

‘But you sell realgar, dwale and hemlock on their own?’ pressed the monk.

Eyer regarded him warily before addressing Bartholomew. ‘You know I do – you buy hemlock and dwale from me regularly. What is this about?’

‘Has Holm bought dormirella at all?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Last week,’ replied Eyer, looking from one to the other anxiously. ‘For his experiments with whitening teeth. Why do you want to know?’

‘Have you sold any other poisons recently?’ asked Michael, ignoring the question.

Eyer spread his hands in a shrug. ‘What is a poison? Virtually anything can be harmful if used incorrectly. Or conversely, a potent herb can be rendered worthless by ignorance. Take Olivia Knyt, for example. She bought bryony root for her husband’s colic, but instead of boiling it in wine for him to drink, she made it into a poultice that she put on his feet. Useless!’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you saying? That she deliberately misused the seeds so that his illness would kill him?’

‘No,’ said Eyer, but so quickly that Bartholomew saw he had his doubts. ‘I am just pointing out that laymen have an unfortunate habit of misapplying what they buy.’

‘What about dormirella?’ probed Michael. ‘Olivia did not buy any of that, did she? Or realgar, hemlock or dwale?’

‘Not from me, although they can be obtained quite easily in the alleys behind St Mary the Great. But let me check my records.’ Eyer produced a roll of parchment, and ran his finger down the entries. ‘Holm bought dormirella, but he is the only one since Easter. However, Edith Stanmore bought a lot of realgar last week. See her name here?’

‘My sister?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

Eyer nodded. ‘Realgar is expensive, so there are not many requests for it. Other than that, no one except medici have bought the ingredients you mentioned.’ He handed Michael the scroll. ‘You can look for yourself if you do not believe me.’

‘Why would Edith want realgar?’ asked Bartholomew. His mouth was dry and he felt sick.

‘I am not sure, although she has been complaining about the number of rats in her warehouse recently. It is not a solution I would employ, of course, but one can never predict the foibles of laymen. But why all these questions? Is there a problem?’

Unhappily, Bartholomew trailed after the monk to Milne Street. A servant conducted them to Edith’s solar, where she was working on a heap of documents. There was a plate of freshly baked Lombard slices at her elbow, and Michael reached for one automatically. Then he recalled what had happened to Hemmysby, and jerked his hand back as though it had been burned.

‘Michael has agreed to help me look into what happened to Oswald,’ said Bartholomew quickly, seeing her puzzled frown and not wanting to tell her why they were there. He ignored the monk’s astonishment at the claim – the boot had been on the other foot often enough.

Edith smiled wanly. ‘Thank you, Brother. I shall always be grateful.’

Michael nodded to the untidy pile of deeds in front of her. ‘Does Richard not help with that sort of thing?’

‘These are the ones he wants to destroy,’ she replied. ‘Most are simple receipts of sale, but some require action by Oswald’s heirs – me, mostly.’

She looked down at the table, and Bartholomew knew she was lying: she had uncovered yet more evidence of Stanmore’s deviation from the straight and narrow.

‘Richard tells me that he means to apply for a place at Winwick Hall,’ said Michael. ‘I confess I am surprised. He has never expressed an interest in scholarship before, and now he has inherited most of Oswald’s money, he has no need to do anything so taxing.’

‘He had a sharp mind when he was a lad,’ said Edith softly. ‘Perhaps immersing himself in books again will remind him that he does not need to be drunk or surrounded by dissipated cronies to enjoy himself.’

Bartholomew hated to see the pain in her eyes, and felt a surge of anger against his nephew. How could Richard put her through such torment when she was still steeped in grief?

‘Eyer mentioned that you have a problem with rats,’ said Michael, changing the subject to one that was obviously a relief for Edith but that made Bartholomew’s stomach churn – especially when he recalled the apothecary’s remark about laymen misusing what they bought. He did not want to hear that she added a pinch to dough in the hope of making it rise, or some such nonsense.

Edith nodded. ‘Yes, the wretched things are everywhere this year.’

‘He sold you realgar?’

‘He did, but not for rats. Why would I use an expensive and not terribly reliable poison on them? There are far better remedies available. I bought it for dyeing cloth.’

‘Of course!’ blurted Bartholomew, closing his eyes in relief. ‘I should have remembered! It yields an orange-red pigment.’

‘Do you have any to hand?’ pressed Michael. ‘In the kitchen, perhaps?’

‘In the kitchen?’ echoed Edith in disbelief. ‘It is a poison, Brother! I do not allow those in a place where food is prepared. It is locked in one of the outside storerooms. However, if you want some, you will have to give me a very good reason, because it can be dangerous if used incorrectly.’

‘We appreciated the cake you made for the post-debate refreshments yesterday,’ said Michael, and his sombre expression made Bartholomew’s stomach lurch again: the monk was not yet convinced that she was innocent. ‘It was kind of you.’

She smiled. ‘It was a delight to see them so heartily devoured. I made four of them, and all that was left at the end were crumbs.’

‘Were all four the same? Or did you use different recipes?’

Edith was obviously mystified by the interrogation, but answered anyway. ‘I made them all with butter, because I thought you might be there, and I know you prefer it to lard.’

‘And how did they get to the church? Did you take them there yourself?’

‘Yes, with Zachary. We delivered them to the vestry while the debate was still raging in the church, and then we came home. But why–’

‘Was anyone in the vestry to receive them?’

Edith regarded him askance. ‘Signor Nerli helped us unpack, but then Bon was called on to speak, so he hurried off to the nave to listen to him. Why are you asking all this?’

‘The security of cakes is an important matter,’ replied Michael gravely. ‘They might have been stolen when they were unguarded. Then where would we have been?’

Edith laughed, a genuine, bubbling guffaw that Bartholomew had not heard since he had returned from Peterborough to find her a widow. ‘You are incorrigible, Brother! I thought for a moment that there was something terribly wrong.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Not here, at least.’

When Michael professed a keen interest in keeping things safe, Edith showed him the shed where she stored the more deadly substances that were used in the preparation of cloth. The only key was on a chain around her neck, and the lock was substantial. Records were kept of what was used when, and it quickly became apparent that her supply of realgar had not been tapped to kill anyone. When he and Michael were outside in the street, Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said sincerely.

‘I was skilful,’ said the monk immodestly. ‘She never once guessed that I was assessing whether she was a killer.’

‘Actually, for making her laugh.’

Michael frowned. ‘Yes, but I hope the willingness with which she did so does not mean she considers me a glutton. I eat very little – just a crust here, and a scrap there. I just have heavy bones, which give the appearance of corpulence, although I would be as light as a feather without them.’

Bartholomew grinned at him, but then became serious. ‘Unfortunately, her testimony does not help us with Hemmysby’s poisoner. The vestry is open to the street as well as the church – anyone could have slipped in and tampered with the food after she and Zachary left, and Nerli abandoned his post to listen to Bon pontificate. And that leads again to the question of whether Hemmysby was the intended victim.’

‘True. Is that Uyten racing towards us? He should slow down – if he falls on his face, he will lose what few teeth he has left.’

‘There you are, Doctor Bartholomew,’ the student gasped. ‘Master Lawrence sent me to find you. You must come to Winwick immediately.’

‘Must he indeed?’ said Michael coolly. ‘And why is that, pray?’

‘Because shortly after you left, Master Lawrence went to visit Ratclyf and found him very ill. He does not know what to do, and begs urgent assistance.’

Bartholomew set off at a run. He was waved through Winwick’s still-unattached gates by the porter, although Michael was challenged when he tried to follow. Bartholomew did not stop to intervene; the Senior Proctor needed no help from him in entering a College. Despite the exigency of the situation, Uyten was unable to resist a brag as they hurried towards the Fellows’ rooms, which were located in a house opposite the hall.

‘We will hire ten more teachers soon. Your nephew has applied to be one of them, which is good. He is exactly the kind of man we should appoint.’

If the remark was intended to impress, it did not succeed – Bartholomew would not want Richard in his College, setting a bad example with his indolence. He said nothing though, and entered Ratclyf’s surprisingly sparse quarters. There was a single rug on the floor, the walls were bare, and the only personal items were a bronze statue that looked Italian and a pretty ceramic bowl.

The lawyer was pale and his breathing shallow. Bartholomew knelt by the bed, and felt a thready pulse and skin that was cold to the touch. Lawrence stood next to him, his amiable face a mask of distress, while Illesy, Nerli and Bon were by the door, keeping well back, as if they feared they might catch something.

‘How long has he been like this?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘I am not sure.’ Lawrence was almost as pale as his patient. ‘He complained of a headache when he woke, and I assumed it was from the amount of wine he downed last night – so much that Nerli was obliged to put him to bed. I suggested healing sleep, and did not trouble him again until shortly after you left…’

‘What about the rest of you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘When did you last see him?’

Nerli had chosen to stand in a shadowy place, so his face was difficult to read. ‘At dawn, when he was surly, but ambulatory. We heard no more from him until Lawrence raised the alarm.’

‘You visited him, Provost,’ said Bon, turning his milky eyes in Illesy’s direction. ‘You came mid-morning, to discuss taking on more Fellows.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Illesy, albeit reluctantly. ‘But he was asleep, so I left again. How do you know? You obviously did not see me.’

Bon smiled without humour. ‘I have learned to identify different treads, so I “see” more than you think. A blind man is not always–’

‘Later, Bon,’ interrupted Lawrence. His voice was anxious. ‘Can you help Ratclyf, Matthew?’

Bartholomew examined the patient again, but Ratclyf was sinking fast and there was nothing he or anyone else could do. ‘What has he eaten or drunk today?’

‘A little pottage for breakfast,’ replied Lawrence. He pointed. ‘The bowl is on the table.’

Bartholomew examined it, to find it had been wiped clean. He sniffed it carefully and detected the faint odour of garlic. Dormirella released a garlicky aroma when heated.

‘Did Ratclyf like his breakfast pottage highly flavoured?’ he asked.

‘The cook made a mistake with his flavourings today,’ explained Nerli. ‘We all ate the stuff, but I ordered the rest tipped away and the pot scoured out. You English have no idea how to cook with potent herbs.’

‘It is remarks like that that made Elvesmere dislike you,’ said Bon sharply. ‘He was patriotic, and you offended him by insulting his country.’ He turned his sour visage on the elderly physician. ‘And you have not been entirely honest, Lawrence, because you failed to tell Bartholomew about the tonic you made. Surely you had not forgotten it?’

‘I had, actually.’ Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Mint and camomile. I prepared it myself, and he drank it all. Here is the empty cup.’

Bartholomew inspected that, too, but there was nothing to see or smell. He returned to Ratclyf, where he felt the life-beat growing steadily fainter under his fingers.

‘Try your sal ammoniac,’ whispered Lawrence. ‘Mine did not work.’

There was nothing to lose, so Bartholomew pulled out the little phial, half wishing he had not thrown away the more powerful concoction he had used on Potmoor. It made no difference. Ratclyf was breathing too shallowly to inhale, and it was not long before he died.

There was a shocked silence when Bartholomew informed Winwick Hall that a second of their number was dead. Illesy sank on to a chair and put his head in his hands, Lawrence started to cry, and Bon comforted him by patting his shoulder, although he was so white that he looked as though he might faint himself. Nerli leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his face still and brooding. The only sounds were Lawrence’s sobs, and Uyten shouting in the yard.

Then Michael arrived and took charge, briskly ushering the Fellows out of the bedchamber to go to the hall and wait in the parlura. He gestured that Bartholomew was to examine Ratclyf. The physician obliged, but, as he expected, found no suspicious marks or injuries.

‘But was he poisoned?’ whispered Michael. Although he had closed the door, both were acutely aware of the possibility of eavesdroppers.

‘I cannot tell. His symptoms were certainly consistent with a dose of dormirella, but they could equally well have been caused by a host of naturally occurring ailments. However, if he was poisoned, then it was not at the same time as Hemmysby, because their deaths are too far apart.’

‘Then let us go and talk to Ratclyf’s grieving colleagues, and see what they can tell us.’

Even though it was dark, there were workmen in the parlura, plastering over cracks in the walls. They put down their tools and left when Illesy said something in a low but authoritative voice. The three surviving Fellows were there, along with Uyten, who was guiding Bon through the treacherous muddle of equipment left by the labourers.

‘I shall summarise what happened.’ Illesy gestured for Bartholomew and Michael to sit on a bench, but he remained standing, giving himself the advantage of height. He was at his most oily, and had clearly used the intervening time to decide what the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner were going to be told. ‘To save unnecessary questions.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘Proceed.’

‘Ratclyf was distressed by the way Hemmysby belittled him at the debate, and drank heavily to expunge it from his mind. Nerli put him to bed but, not surprisingly, he woke this morning with a headache. He swallowed some pottage and Lawrence’s tonic, and went back to sleep. He was dozing when I went to enquire after his health mid-morning–’

‘I thought you visited him to discuss hiring new Fellows,’ interrupted Michael.

‘I intended to do both. But he was resting, so I left him in peace. Bon saw me come and go.’

‘I did not see anything,’ countered Bon pedantically. ‘I heard you.’

‘Just so,’ said Illesy with a pained smile. He turned back to Michael. ‘Shortly after you and Bartholomew left, Lawrence went to see whether there was any improvement, and found Ratclyf unwell. He tells me that all the symptoms point to a failure of Ratclyf’s heart, which was weak.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged to say it was possible. As he had not been Ratclyf’s physician, he did not know the man’s medical history, and his brief time trying to help had not been enough for a reliable diagnosis. Michael returned to the fray.

‘It is odd that you should lose a second Fellow so soon after the first.’

Illesy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sincerely hope you do not suspect foul play with poor Ratclyf.’

‘He means to accuse us of it,’ said Bon sullenly. ‘He is jealous that all the best students are coming here, and aims to wound us by soiling our reputation.’

‘Stop!’ cried Lawrence. ‘There is no need for nasty words. Brother Michael knows the truth: Elvesmere might have been murdered, but Ratclyf died of natural causes.’

‘Where is the wine that Ratclyf drank last night?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.

‘Inside him,’ replied Bon promptly. ‘He swallowed every last drop and did not offer to share.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply. Was there a hint of gloating in the blind scholar’s voice because he knew that Ratclyf had consumed the evidence, so the crime would never be proved?

‘How was his health before this?’ asked Michael.

‘Poor,’ replied Illesy, so quickly that it smacked of invention. ‘He was often unwell, which is the lot of those with weak hearts. I speak from experience: my father was the same.’

‘It is a pity you did not use your witchy skills to save him, Bartholomew,’ said Nerli. ‘He was a much more deserving candidate than Potmoor. I thought being guildsmen would spare us from being burgled by the villain, but we also became victims today.’

‘We were raided,’ said Illesy tightly. ‘But not by Potmoor. The crime occurred this morning, when we were all in the hall telling the students…’

‘Telling the students what?’ demanded Michael when the Provost trailed off sheepishly.

‘To be aware of our enemies,’ supplied Bon spitefully. ‘Namely King’s Hall, Gonville, Michaelhouse and all the other Colleges who mean us harm.’

‘You mean you were delivering speeches to encourage rivalry,’ surmised Michael. ‘You are right: we do dislike you, but it is your own fault. You gloat over your superior numbers and your fine hall, and you are arrogant and condescending. You could have won our affection, but instead you have nurtured an atmosphere of bitterness and confrontation.’

‘We do not want your affection,’ Bon flared up. ‘We want you to acknowledge our rightful place as premier College. We–’ He stopped abruptly when temper caused him to take several angry steps forward and he stumbled over a trowel. Uyten surged to catch him before he fell.

‘What was stolen while you ranted in the hall?’ asked Michael, treating Bon to a look of such contempt that it would have silenced anyone able to see it.

‘We shall show you our mettle next Tuesday,’ Bon snarled, pulling angrily away from his student guide. ‘When we are inaugurated into the University. We may be ninth in the procession entering St Mary the Great, but we will certainly be first coming out.’

Michael blinked. ‘Impossible! Peterhouse always leads, because it is the oldest, followed by King’s Hall and Michaelhouse. You will never take precedence over us.’

‘Oh, yes, we will,’ declared Bon heatedly. ‘And our founder will be here to see it. We received a letter from him this morning, saying that he will be here for the ceremony. Do not forget who he is – Keeper of the Privy Seal and one of the most powerful men in the country.’

‘It makes no difference,’ said Michael tightly. ‘You will still be ninth in the procession. It is not for you, him or anyone else to change what has always been.’

‘You will see,’ sneered Bon. ‘We have a plan to–’

‘We lost nothing of value when we were invaded by the burglar,’ interrupted Illesy quickly. ‘I heard a suspicious sound and hurried to investigate, but the villain saw me coming and fled, snagging a dish as he went. A cracked dish, so at least he will not profit from his crime.’

‘What plan?’ demanded Michael, ignoring Illesy and addressing Bon.

Nerli clapped a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, a gesture that warned him to say no more. ‘We were just teasing, Brother. You need not fear a rumpus on Tuesday.’

‘Good,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Because the Senior Proctor can make life very difficult for foundations that do not conform to the University’s statutes and edicts. I should not like to think that Winwick Hall caused trouble for itself on its first day as a member.’

‘The burglar,’ gushed Lawrence in a transparent attempt to change the subject before Bon lost his temper again. He smiled, all amiable good humour. ‘We were lucky, because he might have stolen Ratclyf’s purse instead of a dish that no one will miss. They were on the table next to each other – poor Ratclyf was too drunk to take it with him last night – but the thief missed it.’

He held up a simple leather bag that looked too coarse to have belonged to the urbane bursar. Michael upended it on the table. There was a cloth for nose-wiping, two pennies, a glass for magnifying writing, and a small phial. Bartholomew picked up the bottle and removed its stopper.

‘Ratclyf had a sore throat after speaking so long at the debate,’ explained Nerli. ‘He took some syrup of liquorice root to soothe it.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘But liquorice root should be avoided by patients with weak hearts.’

‘Yes, it should,’ agreed Lawrence, frowning in consternation. ‘I wonder why he chose that remedy when there are others that would have suited him better.’

Bon stumbled towards the door and opened it, indicating with a curt sweep of his hand that it was time for the visitors to leave. ‘Thank you for coming. It was kind of you to try to help Ratclyf, Bartholomew. But now you must excuse us, as we have much to do.’