Death of a Scholar

Chapter 10

Bartholomew worked in the kitchen until Agatha doused the lamp, obliging him to return to his own quarters. His students were asleep, and unwilling to wake them by lighting a candle, he retreated to the storeroom, where he read until his eyes burned with fatigue. When he closed them for a moment he fell into a deep drowse, and was difficult to wake when Michael came to collect him in the small hours. After several moments of futile shoulder-shaking and increasingly frustrated hisses, the monk solved the problem with a bucket of cold water.

‘What?’ Bartholomew demanded groggily, wiping the drops from his face. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘If they were, I would not want you tending them,’ whispered the monk waspishly. ‘I have never known a man sink so deeply into repose. You were smiling. Was it a pleasant dream?’

It had been. Julitta was in it, and so was Richard, back when he had been a sunny, likeable lad of fifteen. Matilde had made an appearance, too, armed with a heavy purse and announcing her intention to marry Bartholomew that afternoon. Annoyingly, Michael had hurled his water just as Richard was about to divulge a way to wed her and still keep Julitta.

‘What do you want, Brother? It is the middle of the night.’

‘Yes, and we have work to do. Surely you have not forgotten?’

Bartholomew struggled to rally his sluggish wits. ‘What work?’

‘Ratclyf. And depending on what you find, perhaps Elvesmere and Knyt, too.’

Bartholomew’s mind snapped into focus. ‘No, and I have already explained why. Call it superstitious nonsense if you will, but it felt very wrong.’

Michael scrubbed at his face, and Bartholomew noticed again how weary his friend looked. ‘You have allowed your imagination to run riot because Hemmysby was a friend. Well, Ratclyf was not, and as I said yesterday, your second victim should be easier than the first. Langelee agrees. Something very sinister is unfolding, and unless we have the full facts we may never catch the villain who has set it in motion.’

‘But what if people find out?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

‘No one will,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘We shall take precautions. Besides, think of your sister and her beloved Oswald. She will certainly want to know if there is a poisoner at large. You must do it for her sake.’

Bartholomew scowled: it was unfair to use Edith as a lever. ‘We will never know what happened to Oswald, regardless. Even if you found someone to dissect him – and I can tell you now that it will not be me – he has been in the ground too long.’

‘Please, Matt. I understand your reluctance, believe me. I even share it – I would much rather be asleep than helping you defile corpses – but we have no choice. We need answers.’

‘There must be another way to get them.’

‘Langelee and I sat for hours trying to think of one. Nothing came to mind.’

‘I shall be decried as a warlock for certain,’ grumbled Bartholomew.

‘We have until Monday before the blackmailer makes good on his threat,’ Michael went on, ‘which means we have until Monday to catch him. To do that, we need to know how many victims he has claimed, because Langelee is right – he and the poisoner are one and the same. Besides, now you know what to look for, you will use a lighter hand than you did on Hemmysby.’

‘Not necessarily. It depends on the–’

‘No details, please,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Now are you coming or not?’

Profoundly unhappy, Bartholomew donned his cloak and followed Michael to the gate. Cynric was waiting there, having sent the porter on some spurious errand so that the three of them could leave the College unseen.

‘Follow me and do everything I say,’ he ordered. ‘I will keep you from prying eyes.’

He did his best, but neither scholar was very good at creeping around in the pitch black. They tripped over unseen obstacles, Michael squawked when his cloak caught on a shoe-scraper, and Bartholomew dropped his medical bag. By the time they reached the church, Cynric was thoroughly exasperated. He led them through the graveyard, shoving them rather roughly into the shadows when a group of matriculands staggered noisily past. Several women were with them, including two of the town’s less discerning prostitutes.

‘I will not allow this sort of thing once term starts,’ vowed Michael. ‘I shall recruit more beadles, and we will soon have this riotous behaviour under control.’

‘I doubt it, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘If they cannot find a College or a hostel, they will fall under de Stannell’s jurisdiction. And he is useless.’

‘Dick Tulyet will not be gone for ever,’ said Michael curtly, disliking the reminder that his authority was not absolute. ‘He will support what I am trying to do.’

‘Then let us hope he does not return too late,’ said Cynric darkly.

He led them to the vestry door, and ordered them to hide behind a buttress while he reconnoitred the church and its environs. He took so long that Michael began to whisper, to stop himself from dwelling on the unpleasant task that awaited them within.

‘Did I tell you that twenty-seven new hostels have been founded in the last two months? Most are for clerks, as that is why so many lads came – hoping to study law at Winwick.’

Bartholomew was also glad to be thinking of something else. ‘You must be pleased. It means the University is expanding.’

‘Yes, but it is happening too fast. Of course, it is Oxford’s fault.’

‘Oxford’s?’ Bartholomew was startled by the claim. ‘Why?’

‘Because if they had kept their ideas on apostolic poverty to themselves, John Winwick would almost certainly have founded his upstart College there. Instead, he foisted it on us.’

‘He did not choose us because we are the better school?’ joked Bartholomew. ‘Besides, I thought you were pleased that he favoured Cambridge over them.’

‘I was,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘But the rising antagonism Winwick Hall is causing has changed my mind. Now I wish he had imposed his patronage on another foundation.’

Bartholomew, sensing a rant in the making, hastily changed the subject. ‘Have you found Fulbut yet?’

‘No, and as I said earlier, I suspect we never will. Meadowman is the only one still looking for him, as all my other beadles are needed out on patrol. Incidentally, did I tell you about the rumour that the town plans to attack the University at one of three places – this church, King’s Hall or Winwick?’

‘Why them?’

‘Because they are our most conspicuous holdings. I have a bad feeling that the assault will be on Tuesday, at the beginning of term ceremony – which will be grander than usual, as it marks Winwick’s official entry into our ranks. Its founder plans to be there, which is a nuisance. I could do without high-ranking courtiers to protect.’

‘Perhaps you should cancel it.’

‘That would be tantamount to letting the town dictate what we do, and that is a very slippery slope to start down.’ Michael sighed tiredly. ‘I have lost count of the spats I have quelled of late. There was an especially vicious one today between three new hostels and the bakers’ apprentices.’

‘What was it about?’

‘The burglaries. The culprit – who most people believe to be Potmoor – evades capture with such effortless ease that people are beginning to believe he has help. The students think it is de Stannell, while the town blames the University.’

‘Did you speak to Potmoor about the fire in St Clement’s?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or his connections to Illesy?’

‘Yes, but he refused to comment on either. Did you hear the choir sing my new Jubilate, by the way? It was very rousing.’

‘That is one way of putting it.’

‘It is meant to be loud,’ said Michael, offended. ‘It is music to celebrate, and you do not do that in a whisper. Here is Cynric at last. Good. If he had kept us waiting much longer, my nerve would have failed me.’

‘Your nerve,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘What about mine?’

St Mary the Great was dark and eerily silent, its thick walls and handsomely glazed windows blocking any outside noise. The only sound inside was the low murmur of prayers, which came from Heyford, who liked earning extra money and was always the first to volunteer when vigils were required. He was in the Lady Chapel with the three coffins.

‘He is the only person here,’ whispered Cynric. ‘You must lure him away, Brother. Then Doctor Bartholomew can do what he likes to these corpses, invisible to all but the spirits.’

Michael pulled a wineskin from under his cloak. ‘I shall offer him a little claret to keep out the chill. He claims never to touch strong beverages, but that it is a lie, or he would not have been drunk when his church caught fire. However, he will have to come to my office for it, as I do not approve of imbibing in the presence of the dead.’

Bartholomew snatched the flask and took a hearty swig. He rarely felt the need for a drink, but that night was an exception. He gulped so much that Michael was obliged to tug it away, afraid there would be insufficient left to distract the vicar.

Fortunately, Heyford was more than happy to shirk his duties, and Michael was hard-pressed to keep up with him when he surged to his feet and aimed for the Senior Proctor’s elegant office, which was located in the south aisle – a little too close for Bartholomew’s liking, but not so far that Heyford would baulk at the distance from where he was paid to be. Bartholomew waited until Cynric nodded to say the coast was clear, and then stepped towards the caskets. He glanced around anxiously.

‘Do not worry, boy,’ whispered Cynric. ‘I bought a charm to protect us. It contains real holy water, so you are quite safe from evil sprites. However, you will not be safe from Heyford if he comes back before you have finished, so you had better get on with … whatever you mean to do.’

He retreated into the shadows when Bartholomew unlatched the first lid, unwilling to witness what was being done in the name of justice. The coffin contained Elvesmere, waxy-faced and reaching the point where he had outstayed his welcome above ground. The body had been dressed in a shroud with a lot of fiddly laces, and by the time Bartholomew finally reached bare skin, he was so exasperated that making an incision seemed easy by comparison.

When the examination was complete, he re-dressed Elvesmere, and moved to the next box. His scalpel was just descending towards Ratclyf when there was a great thump on the door, which made him jump so violently that the metal blade slipped from his fingers and clattered ringingly on the flagstones. The muted murmur of Michael’s conversation with Heyford faltered.

‘Students,’ the vicar said disapprovingly, when tipsy giggles followed. ‘Relieving themselves in the porch. The scoundrels! I shall tell them what happens to brutes who–’

‘Let my beadles do it,’ said Michael quickly. ‘The troublemakers might be armed, and we do not want you hurt. More wine?’

The argument convinced Heyford, who held out his cup. Bartholomew released the breath he had been holding, and returned to Ratclyf with hands that shook. He finished quickly, then pulled the lid from Knyt’s ornate chest.

He stood for a moment, gazing at the kindly features. The Secretary had been a force for good in the town, and he and Oswald had relieved a lot of suffering through the Guild of Saints. It was a pity things were changing now that de Stannell was in charge. Or were they? Julitta and Edith were still members, and they would not condone funds being squandered on less deserving causes.

A burst of laughter from Michael’s office pulled him from his reverie – it was hardly the time to ponder such matters. He took a deep breath and began his examination. It took no more than a moment to learn what he needed to know, and he was just straightening Knyt’s gown when Cynric came to demand what was taking so long.

‘I have finished now,’ Bartholomew replied shortly, tempted to point out that dissection was an art, not an excuse for butchery. ‘Help me put the lids back on.’

‘You have not done it yet?’ hissed Cynric in alarm. ‘Then hurry! Heyford has finished all the wine and will be out soon.’

At that point Bartholomew discovered that he was less adept at re-attaching clasps than at manipulating dissecting tools, and nervous tension made him more clumsy still. Cynric cursed when he realised they were trying to put Ratclyf’s lid on Elvesmere, and gulped audibly when Heyford’s returning footsteps sounded in the nave. Michael was at the vicar’s heels, gabbling about apostolic poverty in a desperate attempt to distract him a little longer. Then the last clip snapped into place, and there was just enough time to duck behind a pillar. Unfortunately, in his haste to escape, Bartholomew dropped his scalpel a second time. Heyford stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Someone is in here, Brother,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘A burglar, perhaps, hoping to steal all the ecclesiastical silver that your greedy University has accumulated.’

‘It was a bird,’ replied Michael. ‘One is trapped in here at the moment. But as I was saying, this schism about the relation of grace and merit to dominion is one that will see the whole of Christendom in flames.’

‘I hear it has already caused trouble in Oxford.’ Heyford dropped to his knees in front of the coffins. ‘The King himself has been forced to intervene, and he is said to be furious about it. But we had better discuss this tomorrow, Brother. Now, I must pray.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, surreptitiously kicking the scalpel backwards. To his horror, it rattled on the flagstones, causing Heyford to leap to his feet. ‘Lord! What an audacious bird!’

‘Perhaps we should look for it,’ gulped Heyford. ‘It should be roosting, not flying around making peculiar noises. Do you think the Devil has possessed it?’

‘Of course not,’ declared Michael haughtily. ‘Satan would never dare enter St Mary the Great.’

‘Then maybe these sinister sounds are not a bird at all, but three souls crying out from Purgatory. Or rather one from Purgatory and the other two from Hell.’

‘Which two are in Hell?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘The pair from Winwick. I said from the start that the place was evil, and when that thieving Illesy was made Provost, I was sure of it.’

‘Are you sure about what happened in Westminster?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘Illesy does not seem dishonest to me.’

‘Of course I am sure! He is a felon, and his criminal tendencies are what encouraged Potmoor to hire him as his legal representative. The pair of them conspired to burn me alive when I spoke out against their wicked ways.’

‘You may be right about Illesy, but that does not mean the rest of Winwick should be tarred with the same brush. There is no evidence to suggest that Elvesmere or Ratclyf were corrupt.’

Heyford pursed his lips. ‘Elvesmere was a bigot who disliked anything not within his narrow remit of virtues, while Ratclyf was the most deceitful rogue I ever met. Doubtless that is why they put him in charge of Winwick’s finances.’

‘I hardly think–’

‘It is common knowledge that if you want a foundation to prosper, you should appoint a villain to mind its coffers. Why do you think Potmoor was invited to join the Guild of Saints?’

‘Perhaps that explains why Michaelhouse is poor,’ said Michael wryly. ‘We have no mendacious felon to manipulate our accounts.’

‘Get Thelnetham to do it,’ advised the vicar. ‘He will see you wealthy in no time at all.’

When Heyford returned to his prayers, Cynric grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and bundled him out of the church, taking care to ensure that he did not drop anything else on the way. When they reached the graveyard, both took deep breaths to calm their jangling nerves.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, making them jump by speaking behind them. He handed the physician the scalpel he had retrieved – the truth would be out for certain if that were found lying around. ‘What did you discover? It had better be something worthwhile, because it was not pleasant spending all that time with an opinionated fool like Heyford.’

‘It was not pleasant being dragged out to perform anatomies in the middle of the night,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been so bad if we could have worked openly, with the blessing of all concerned. But what we did felt shabby and sacrilegious.’

‘Yes, it did,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is over now, so what did you learn?’

‘That Elvesmere and Knyt have lesions consistent with dormirella, but Ratclyf does not.’

Michael frowned. ‘So Elvesmere and Knyt were murdered?’

‘I can only tell you that the toxin was inside them. I cannot tell you how it got there.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘Well, Hemmysby, Elvesmere and Knyt are unlikely to have swallowed the same substance by accident on three different days, and the chances of three separate suicides are highly improbable. I think we can safely deduce that they were unlawfully killed.’

‘But Ratclyf was not. At least, not with dormirella. Perhaps he really did die of a weak heart.’

‘So of the six deaths we are investigating, three were poisoned, one was shot, and one died of undetermined causes,’ summarised Michael. ‘That leaves Oswald…’

‘I will not dissect him for anyone,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Not even Edith. You will have to find the killer, and make him give you the names of any other victims.’

‘Yes, but how? I was hoping for more than a mere confirmation of what we suspected already. And because we can never tell another living soul what we did tonight, we cannot even reveal that these men were poisoned. People will ask how we know.’

‘I have an idea,’ said Cynric brightly. Both scholars regarded him warily: his suggestions were not always sensible. From under his cloak, Cynric produced a flask containing more of Goodwyn’s blue creation. ‘Do you recall how this stuff started off clear, but changed colour during the night? Well, you can claim that the same thing happens with the poison.’

‘I do not follow,’ said Michael.

Cynric grimaced impatiently. ‘You can say that dormirella is undetectable at the time of death, but that clues appear on the victim after a period of time. Who will know any different?’

‘Lots of people,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. He began to list them. ‘Langelee, Rougham, Meryfeld, Lawrence–’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Michael disdainfully. ‘Lawrence said he had never heard of dormirella before we mentioned it, so he is not in a position to argue, while the other medici are unlikely to know what the poison can do.’

‘And Master Langelee will not contradict us when we explain what we are doing,’ added Cynric.

‘But what are we doing?’ asked Michael. ‘What kind of clues do you intend to invent, exactly?’

Cynric waved the phial. ‘We shall paint their faces blue.’

‘I doubt we could make that look convincing,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Moreover, one drip in the wrong place will expose the ruse in an instant.’

‘Their lips, then,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘Or even one or two judiciously placed spots. Anything that will be obvious to a casual observer.’

‘A casual observer who can see through wood?’ asked Bartholomew archly. ‘They are in sealed caskets, Cynric. And there is no reason to open them.’

‘Yes, there is,’ countered Michael, visibly warming to the idea. ‘We undid Hemmysby’s last night, because we forgot to include his pectoral cross. We can say we noticed these marks then. Concerned, I can order the other coffins opened, too. Cynric is right: we can say quite openly that these men were poisoned, and it may panic the killer into making a mistake. At which point we shall have him.’

‘But it is a lie,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I am not very good at those.’

‘It is not a lie – it is a trap to catch the beast who has taken at least three lives, stolen the Stanton Hutch and arranged for Hemmysby to be accused of it, and aims to destroy Michaelhouse by publishing William’s tract. Think of that if anyone challenges you.’

‘We should paint Ratclyf’s lips, too,’ said Cynric. ‘He was not poisoned, but only one person knows that – the culprit. Our deception will confuse and unsettle him.’

‘Excellent!’ crowed Michael. ‘It is high time we took control of the situation.’

Bartholomew was far from convinced that the plan was sound, especially when it became obvious that he was the one expected to apply the dye. Michael shoved him back inside the church, while Cynric informed Heyford that he had seen a suspicious shadow lurking. The vicar was more than happy to lock himself in the monk’s office until told it was safe to emerge.

‘Hurry, Matt,’ hissed Michael urgently when the physician took an inordinate amount of time to do what was necessary. ‘Our scheme will not work if we are caught.’

‘It needs to look realistic,’ Bartholomew whispered back irritably. ‘We will be accused of desecration for certain if we leave obvious brush strokes.’

He finished at last, having applied two or three discreet but noticeable stains on the lips of each corpse. They were as convincing as he could make them, and he left the church with relief. Cynric went to inform Heyford that it was safe to resume his vigil, but the vicar was unconvinced, and ordered the book-bearer to stay with him for the rest of the night. Cynric tried to demur, but Heyford was adamant.

‘I was almost incinerated once,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to give anyone a second chance.’

The escapade left Bartholomew with a deep sense of disquiet, and he knew he would not sleep for what remained of the night, so he sat in his storeroom, a blanket around his shoulders, working on his lectures. The knowledge that he was still far from ready for the start of term ahead forced him to concentrate, so when the bell rang to wake the College for its morning devotions, he was pleased to announce that he had managed to prepare everything that was needed for the second week of teaching. He ignored the fact that another seven and a half still remained, and congratulated himself on his progress.

He went to the lavatorium, where he washed, shaved and donned clean clothes. The lavatorium was a shed-like structure with water piped from the well and drains to channel it away again, built for those who cared about personal hygiene. Bartholomew usually had it to himself, especially after Langelee had declared hot water a frivolous luxury, so that only cold was available. Shivering, the physician trotted across the yard to where his colleagues were gathering.

‘Where is Clippesby?’ asked Langelee irritably. ‘Look in his room, would you, Suttone?’

‘He will not be there,’ sneered Thelnetham. ‘He will be with that chicken. If he were not totally witless, I would say he was communing with the Devil’s familiar.’

‘Well, he is a Dominican,’ said William, who could believe nothing good of that Order. Then it occurred to him that he had just agreed with Thelnetham, and hastened to put matters right. ‘But it is the Gilbertines who worship Satan, and if anyone communes with the Devil it is you.’

‘As you wrote in your poisonous little tract,’ said Thelnetham coldly. ‘Well, you had better hope it is never made public, because my Order will sue yours, and mine will win.’

‘It will not be made public,’ vowed Langelee. ‘We will outwit this villain, and stop him from harming us. We must.’

‘You can try,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I suspect he is cleverer than you, so I plan to transfer to another College as soon as one offers me a place. I shall announce my availability at the Saturday Sermon today. It is my turn to preach, and–’

‘No!’ barked Langelee with such anger that Thelnetham started in surprise. ‘You will not make self-serving declarations on the day of Hemmysby’s burial. And there will be no Saturday Sermon either, out of respect for him. We shall have it on Monday instead.’

Thus admonished, Thelnetham fell silent. Suttone returned to say that Clippesby’s room was empty, so Bartholomew went to see whether the Dominican was with the hens in the orchard.

Michaelhouse’s poultry led enchanted lives. High walls and secure gates meant they were safe from foxes, thieves and any other predator that might take a fancy to their overfed little bodies, while their coop was a veritable palace, built by a student who had wanted to be a master carpenter. It was not only sturdy, rainproof and airy, but boasted some of the best wood-carvings in Cambridge. Clippesby kept it spotless, and Bartholomew often thought that Ethel and her flock lived in greater comfort than the Fellows.

‘Clippesby?’ he called as he approached. ‘John?’

He was somewhat surprised to see the Dominican emerge through the pop-hole. He had expected him to be talking to the birds, or perhaps letting them out for the day, but he had certainly not anticipated that he might have crawled into the coop with them.

‘Is it time for church?’ yawned Clippesby. ‘I did not hear the bell. I must have been in a very deep slumber.’

‘You slept in there?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding him uneasily.

‘Ethel misses Hemmysby,’ explained the Dominican. ‘So I decided to keep her company.’

‘Please do not tell Thelnetham,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘We would never hear the end of it.’

‘Yes, he has grown opinionated of late. Especially about Hemmysby, who was not a thief.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, seeing tears fill the gentle Dominican’s eyes. ‘But Michael will find the villain who wants us to think so.’

Clippesby bent to scoop up Ethel, who was lurking in the hope of treats. ‘He said yesterday that it is the same person who aims to blackmail us over William’s nasty tract.’

‘Yes – the culprit has broken in three times now. Once to steal the Stanton Hutch, once to plant the Cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, and once to take William’s essay. Our security has never been very tight, so it cannot have been difficult.’

‘Ethel heard Thelnetham’s response when William gave him that tract to read,’ said Clippesby, kissing the chicken tenderly on the head. ‘As did any number of students. He read a few pages in silence, then began to screech his rage and horror.’

‘Well, William did say he wrote it with that specific end in mind.’

‘The students must have gossiped about the incident outside the College, where the blackmailer overheard. It explains how he knew what to come here and take. The tract is a horrible piece, Matt – not just the heresy, but the hurtful remarks about other Orders and John Winwick. Our colleagues are right to fear what will happen if it is ever released.’

‘Then let us hope that Michael can prevent it.’

Clippesby nodded unhappily, and turned to another depressing subject. ‘How is your sister? I cannot imagine Richard is much comfort to her, given the company he keeps – Goodwyn, Uyten, some of the unruliest matriculands. The Bene’t hedgehog tells me that there are an unusually high number from London this year, which is why Richard knows so many of them. She wonders whether he told them to come and try their luck at Winwick Hall.’

‘Then I hope she is wrong,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

‘The swans predict trouble for Tuesday,’ Clippesby went on. ‘The town resents lavish displays of grandeur, and they fear an attack on our more ostentatious foundations – King’s Hall, Winwick and St Mary the Great.’

‘Michael heard that rumour, too. Let us trust that it is groundless.’

‘Yes, especially if the Keeper of the Privy Seal is here to witness it. It would be a pity if he told the King that we are as bad as Oxford for quarrels and riots.’

They walked to the yard, Bartholomew brushing telltale wood shavings from Clippesby as they went, lest Thelnetham guessed what the Dominican had been doing. They arrived to find the other Fellows talking in low, worried voices, while the students waited by the gate.

‘I say we charge William the twenty marks,’ Thelnetham was hissing. ‘It is his scribbling that caused the trouble. And afterwards, he should do the decent thing and resign. Extortionists never stop with one payment, and we do not want any more demands.’

‘But I do not have twenty marks,’ snapped William. ‘And you should accept some of the blame anyway. If you were not such an ignorant pig, I would not have felt obliged to put pen to parchment in the first place.’

‘Do not quarrel,’ said Clippesby, releasing Ethel so she flapped towards them. Both Gilbertine and Franciscan recoiled in alarm. ‘It is unbecoming for men in holy orders.’

‘And you should resign, too,’ snarled Thelnetham. ‘Indeed, you all should. You are either bigots, lunatics, gluttons, warlocks or heretics. Our founder must be turning in his grave!’

‘He will turn even faster if you do not catch this blackmailer,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘What did you discover in St Mary the Great last night?’

Michael launched into the tale that he and Cynric had devised, which made Bartholomew look away, lest his more observant colleagues should detect his unease with it. ‘So the rogue has claimed at least four victims,’ he concluded. ‘Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. Not to mention trying to extort money from us and stealing our hutch.’

‘Then you must do all you can to catch him, Brother,’ said William. ‘Because I am not giving Hemmysby’s killer twenty marks. Even if I did have it to spare.’

The discussion and Clippesby’s sojourn in the henhouse meant they were late, so Langelee led his procession up St Michael’s Lane at a rapid clip. They were just crossing the High Street when they ran into a group of men who, judging from their bleary eyes and ale-scented breath, had spent the night in a tavern. They were led by Hugo Potmoor, and comprised an odd combination of his father’s henchmen and matriculands. Bartholomew was dismayed to see Richard among them. His nephew’s was not the only presence to excite comment.

‘There is Surgeon Holm,’ remarked Michael. ‘What is he doing in such unsavoury company?’

‘He and Hugo are friends,’ explained Clippesby. ‘The sparrows tell me they are always together, and are frequent visitors to each other’s homes.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Holm is a villain, so of course he gravitates towards men of similar mien.’ He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. ‘And that includes your nephew, I am sorry to say.’

‘Richard is more fool than villain,’ said Langelee. ‘Tell him to go home before anyone sees him, Bartholomew. He will bring disgrace to your family if he is spotted cavorting with this horde.’

Chagrined that even the hedonistic Master deplored his kinsman’s choice of company, Bartholomew went to do as he was told.

‘I suppose you have come to recommend that I find myself some more suitable friends,’ slurred Richard. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I like these. So you can mind your own business.’

Bartholomew stared at him, wondering what had happened to the likeable, ebullient boy he had known and loved. Sensing a quarrel in the making, Richard’s companions came to form a semicircle at his back, sniggering and jostling.

‘Actually, I came to pass on Langelee’s advice,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘That if you must act like a halfwit, do it somewhere other than the High Street.’

‘I am touched by your concern.’ Richard waved a careless hand, which caused him to stagger. ‘But it is too early for anyone important to be awake, so you and Langelee need not worry.’

Hugo flung a meaty arm around his shoulders. ‘On the contrary, your reputation will be enhanced. After all, Holm and I are influential members of the Guild of Saints.’

Richard smiled challengingly at his uncle. ‘You will soon get used to me living here again. And I shall be your equal soon – a University Fellow, no less. Now I see what Cambridge has to offer, I wonder why I ever left.’

‘The Brazen George awaits!’ cried Hugo suddenly. ‘And I have a fierce thirst. The last one through the door buys the first drinks.’

There was a concerted lurch towards the tavern, where their braying laughter and drunken hoots drew disapproving glances from scholars and townsmen alike. Richard lost his footing as he tried to join them, and Holm and Hugo made heavy work of pulling him to his feet. Hating to see him make such a spectacle of himself, Bartholomew went to help.

‘Perhaps you should just go home, Richard,’ he said quietly. ‘More ale will–’

‘Do not tell him what to do,’ interrupted Hugo belligerently. ‘It is a good thing you raised my father from the dead or I would trounce you for your audacity.’

‘Trounce him anyway,’ suggested Holm. ‘It might make him less attractive to my wife.’

Hugo laughed. ‘It will take a lot more than a battered face to lop your cuckold’s horns! Just as it will take more than death to lop those of a certain deceased Secretary.’

Holm blinked as he struggled to understand. ‘Do you mean Olivia Knyt? She had a lover?’

‘Yes – my father. She bought bryony root to cure her husband’s fever, but she used it improperly and he died. Which means she is now free to cavort openly, and even remarry if she chooses. Bryony. It sounds so innocent and yet … Perhaps you should buy some for Julitta, Will. That would put an end to her brazen wantonness.’

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. ‘You would not–’

‘Julitta is not wanton,’ said Holm, eyes narrowed. ‘She loves me, and me alone. Come, Hugo. We have better things to do than bandy words with the man who swoons over my wife.’

They sauntered away arm in arm, leaving Bartholomew staring after them in mute horror, appalled that his affection for Julitta might have put her in danger. Yet Holm had seemed equally averse to poisoning his wife. Did that mean he did harbour some feeling for her, and she was safe from harm? But what if–

‘You should stay away from them,’ advised Richard. Bartholomew had forgotten him, and jumped when his nephew spoke at his side. ‘Especially Hugo. I enjoy his company, but he can be … disagreeable to people he dislikes.’

‘I am sure he can. He takes after his father.’

‘You should not have done it.’ Richard grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘Raised Potmoor from the dead, I mean. It has turned a lot of people against you. You should have kept your smelling salts in your bag. You did not have to use them on him.’

‘Of course I did! I took an oath to help those in need.’

‘An oath,’ mused Richard. ‘I am good at finding loopholes in those, and it is obvious that you should renounce that one. I shall want something in return, of course.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that he had no intention of reneging on a vow, especially one in which he believed with all his heart.

‘That you stay out of my affairs. I know what I am doing with … I know what I am doing.’

‘Doing with whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham’s wife? If he catches you, he will destroy you with gossip. He has done it before.’

‘If he tries, I will sue him. There is no more effective weapon than the law, and I am an expert at wielding it. And I am serious about what I said – do not meddle in my affairs.’

Richard and his friends were not the only ones worse for wear after a night of drinking. So was Noll Verius, who had collapsed in a heap in St Michael’s churchyard. Isnard was with him, but although the bargeman was adept at compensating for the loss of his leg, carrying inebriated ditchers was well past what he could manage.

‘Help me, Doctor,’ he called. ‘His wife will be worried, and I would not have her distressed.’

Bartholomew should have refused and gone to church, but he liked Ylaria, so he obligingly hefted Verius across his shoulder.

‘You are stronger than you look,’ remarked Isnard, swinging along beside him on his crutches. ‘I suppose you are used to lugging your colleagues around after Michaelhouse feasts.’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully, thinking it had been a long time since the College had been able to treat its members to that sort of extravagance. He wondered whether it ever would again.

‘Will you tell Brother Michael that me and the other basses had nothing to do with the trouble at the Laughing Pig last night?’ Isnard went on. ‘I should not like him to think badly of us. Or worse, tell us off in front of the whole choir.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘We were sitting quietly, bemoaning the fact that the Guild of Saints will no longer help needy widows, when your nephew and his boisterous friends arrived. We ignored them at first, but then we heard Richard say that he had voted against the widows. Well, tempers flared and punches were thrown, although not at him, more is the pity.’

‘Agatha told me about Richard’s role in that ballot. I will speak to him.’

‘Do not bother. He will not listen, and you will be wasting your breath. And do not worry your sister with it either. She is a good lady, and must be heartbroken to see what he has become.’

They arrived at Verius’s house, where it took both of them to manoeuvre the ditcher through the door. Ylaria was relieved to have her husband home, and clucked around him like a mother hen.

‘He was celebrating,’ explained Isnard. ‘Brother Michael has given him the solo in the Recordare. Michael has a good ear for an angelic voice, which is why he lets me lead the basses, of course. He appreciates my rich tones.’

Bartholomew replaced the filthy bandage on the ditcher’s thumb and left, but he had not taken many steps before he was hailed by Rougham, who fell into step at his side. The Gonville medicus was in a foul mood, because the Guild of Saints had declined to make its usual yearly donation towards his College chapel. Bartholomew, eager for an excuse to escape the tirade, was glad when he spotted Eyer on the other side of the road.

Rougham followed him to where Eyer was talking to a squat, fierce-faced physician named Nigellus de Thornton, who practised in the nearby village of Barnwell. Nigellus was livid, and the apothecary was trying to calm him.

‘Have you heard?’ Nigellus snarled, making Bartholomew and Rougham flinch at the fury in his voice. ‘What Winwick Hall has done to me?’

‘No,’ replied Rougham. ‘But I warrant it will be something nasty. The Keeper of the Privy Seal should have foisted his vile foundation on Oxford instead. We do not want it here.’

‘Illesy and his Fellows have rejected my application to teach,’ raged Nigellus. ‘How dare they! I was a physician before most of them were born, and they should have welcomed me with open arms. But they say they have Lawrence, and there is no need for another medicus.’

‘You should have asked me before submitting yourself to their insults,’ said Rougham. ‘I could have told you that they are only interested in recruiting lawyers. Lawrence is unusual in that he specialises in both subjects, but–’

‘They should have made an exception for me,’ blazed Nigellus. ‘But I will show them! I have been offered a place in Zachary Hostel, and they will kick themselves when they see how many students I attract.’

‘He was not rejected because he cannot teach law,’ confided Eyer, when the enraged medicus had stamped away, ‘but because he is not rich enough. Winwick only wants men who can make massive donations to its coffers. I considered applying myself until I realised how much it costs.’

‘I imagine you can afford it.’ Rougham glanced pointedly towards Eyer’s handsome shop. ‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints, and they do not admit paupers.’

Eyer winced. ‘Yes, but I am thinking of resigning. I would rather my hard-earned shillings went to relieve beggars, orphans and widows, not to buy fancy cutlery for Winwick Hall.’

‘I do not see you as an educator anyway,’ said Rougham. ‘You told me only yesterday that you dislike most of the young men who are applying for places to study here this year.’

‘I would make a very good scholar,’ objected Eyer indignantly. ‘Much better than most of the masters I studied under.’

‘You had more than one?’ asked Rougham, surprised. ‘I thought apprentices in the remedy business tended to stick with the same mentor for the whole of their training.’

‘I am different,’ retorted Eyer, the shortness of his response making it clear that the discussion was over. Bartholomew was puzzled – most craftsmen were usually only too happy to talk about the painstaking process of learning their trade. Then Eyer forced a smile. ‘Are you hungry? I am having crispy fried earthworms and seagull gizzards for breakfast. You are welcome to join me.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, wondering if he seriously expected such an invitation to be accepted. The earnest expression on Eyer’s face made it abundantly clear that he did.

‘I am obliged to break my fast in College,’ said Rougham, backing away quickly. ‘Attendance at meals is obligatory in Gonville, so you must excuse me.’

‘It is obligatory in Michaelhouse, too,’ said Bartholomew, when Eyer turned hopeful eyes in his direction. He found himself thinking that even Agatha did not serve such unappealing fare, although that might change if the Stanton Hutch was not recovered.

Eyer sighed. ‘Pity. Some intelligent company would have been welcome. But I had better return to my shop before my apprentices set it alight. They are lively lads and I love them dearly, but they are inclined to be wild.’

‘So are my new students,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘Aungel told you about their foolish experiments with urine, I believe?’

Eyer nodded. ‘Urine and your medical supplies, although you have not come to me to replenish your stocks. Have you taken your custom elsewhere?’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Eyer tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your personal finances are none of my concern, but you cannot earn much from your paupers. If you ever find yourself short of the necessaries, I hope you will let me know. I am more than happy to defer payment. I would not extend this sort of credit to the other physicians, but I trust you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, although he wondered if Eyer would have made the offer if he had known that any bills incurred were unlikely to be paid before Christmas. Before he could say more, Cynric arrived with a summons from a patient who lived in the north of the city.

‘Do not forget,’ said Eyer, as the physician turned to leave. ‘I will not see the poor suffer for want of remedies, and you are always welcome in my shop – if not to dine, then for decent conversation and a chance to relax.’

‘You should accept that invitation, boy,’ advised Cynric. ‘I would never think of looking for you there, and it would do you no harm to escape from patients, students and Brother Michael on occasion. Especially if he wants you to chop up any more dead bodies.’

As Bartholomew walked past St Clement’s Church on his way home, he heard Heyford delivering one of his famously feisty sermons. He could see from the road that the church was packed, and, curious to know why the vicar attracted such consistently large crowds, he stepped into the porch to listen. It did not take him long to understand the appeal: the congregation comprised the kind of townsfolk who were delighted to hear that the University had been founded by Satan. They also enjoyed the news that Winwick Hall would soon suffer the wrath of God because it was full of lawyers. It was not only scholars who suffered Heyford’s spitting vitriol.

‘Potmoor tried to destroy this beautiful church with me inside it,’ he bellowed. ‘Well, he will burn in Hell for his wickedness.’

‘You spout nonsense, priest!’ came an equally loud voice, almost in Bartholomew’s ear. The physician shot away in alarm when he saw it came from Potmoor – he did not want to be standing next to him while he heckled a vicar. The felon strode through the porch to the nave, where others also hastened to give him a wide berth. ‘I died and went to Heaven, but God saw fit to send me back to Earth. He loves me, and it is you who will burn.’

‘Ever since he died, Master Potmoor has been working on the town’s behalf,’ added another voice. It was Deputy de Stannell. Illesy was also in the retinue that clustered around Potmoor’s heels, but the Winwick Provost took care to stand in the midst of Potmoor’s henchmen, either in the hope that he would not be noticed, or because he thought it would be safer in the event of trouble. ‘He has donated a fortune to the Guild of Saints, and God applauds his charity.’

‘What charity?’ demanded Heyford. ‘The Guild has been withdrawing alms for weeks now. And why? So the money can go to Winwick Hall! And the reason for this heinous decision? Because the guildsmen want Winwick’s Fellows to say masses for their souls when they are dead. It is not generosity that drives them, but self-interest.’

There was a growl of disapproval from the congregation, many of whom had received financial help in the past, and were resentful that more might not be forthcoming in the future.

‘And you are a burglar, too,’ added Heyford. ‘We know who has been stealing from us.’

‘Do you indeed?’ said Potmoor, speaking over the murmur of agreement that rustled along the nave. ‘Then why does de Stannell not arrest me?’

‘Because he is your creature,’ spat Heyford. ‘He does what you tell him.’

‘And I do what God tells me,’ declared Potmoor. He fingered the sword at his side, and two or three of his henchmen drew daggers. The muttering stopped and the church fell silent. ‘He blessed me with a glimpse of His sacred face. Can you claim as much?’

‘You had no holy vision,’ sneered Heyford. ‘It was a side effect of the sal ammoniac. You are a fraud, and the College your Guild supports is an abomination. It should be burned to the ground with all its lawyers inside, just as you attempted to do to me.’

‘You try my patience, Heyford,’ said Potmoor softly. ‘So does anyone who backs you in your vicious claims. Be warned. I shall not turn the other cheek if you continue to preach against me.’

His voice was low, almost caressing, but it carried unmistakable menace. His small, reptilian eyes swept around the building, causing murmurs of consternation as they rested on specific people. By the time he stalked out, the whole congregation had been thoroughly cowed. Heyford began to rant again, but his voice had lost its conviction and his audience soon lost interest.

Bartholomew had not enjoyed witnessing Potmoor’s display of power, and he was glad to leave St Clement’s for the familiar comforts of home. However, he had not gone far along Bridge Street before he heard someone call his name. Fighting down the urge to keep walking when he recognised Potmoor’s voice, he turned slowly and saw the felon hurrying towards him, the henchmen, Illesy and de Stannell at his heels.

‘Heyford just made a very unpleasant assertion,’ said Potmoor. His face was white, and his small eyes burned with fury. ‘You gave me nothing to induce hallucinations, did you?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But images of unusual clarity are not unknown when–’

‘A simple “no” will suffice. Elaboration will vex me, and I have suffered enough nonsense for one day. No wonder my headaches persist! Fools like Heyford aggravate me at every turn.’

‘They do not know what it means to be touched by God,’ said de Stannell sycophantically.

‘Indeed,’ said Potmoor, but the ice in his voice stopped the deputy from adding more. He turned back to the physician. ‘I am glad we met, Bartholomew, because I want you to do something for me. Your Benedictine friend has been asking questions about Illesy’s past. Specifically, an incident in Westminster.’

‘Poor Heyford,’ sighed Illesy. ‘He is so determined not to be blamed for setting his own church alight that he has resorted to telling some very wild lies about Potmoor and me. He is a man to be pitied, not taken seriously.’

Bartholomew watched him fiddle with the rings that covered his fingers, a restless, nervous gesture that made the physician ask himself if it was Illesy who was lying.

‘But people do take him seriously,’ said Potmoor softly. ‘And I dislike him slandering the Provost of the College that my Guild has chosen to fund. If he were not a priest, I would kill him.’

‘Now, now.’ Illesy laughed, to make light of the remark. ‘No talk of murder in front of the Deputy Sheriff, if you please.’

‘I thought I was talking in front of the Secretary of the Guild of Saints,’ said Potmoor coldly, and Bartholomew glimpsed again the aura of dark power that hung around the man.

‘Of course you are,’ gushed de Stannell. ‘And I–’

‘Tell Michael to stop probing this Westminster business,’ said Potmoor, his eyes boring into Bartholomew’s. ‘He will find nothing amiss, and his time would be better spent investigating these burglaries. He claims I have no alibi for them, but I do – I was at prayer.’

‘But there have been dozens of thefts,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Are you saying that you were at your devotions when every single one of them was committed?’

‘Yes,’ said Potmoor firmly. ‘I am.’

‘Then you must spend a lot of time on your knees,’ remarked Bartholomew, wondering whether the felon seriously expected him to believe such a ludicrous claim.

‘Hours,’ agreed Potmoor. He whipped around, startling de Stannell so badly that the deputy stumbled as he jerked away. ‘Tell Lawrence to tend me in the Brazen George as soon as possible. I need more of his medicine to soothe my pounding head.’