Death of a Scholar

Chapter 11

It was almost time for Hemmysby’s burial, so Bartholomew hurried to Michaelhouse to don his best cloak and tabard. When the physician was ready, Langelee led his scholars up the lane. There was an unwritten but universally accepted law that funeral processions had right of way, but resentment of the University was currently so high that carts and riders refused to stop, and the scholars were obliged to brave a treacherous gauntlet of vehicles.

They straggled into the churchyard, where Langelee began grappling with the lock. A combination of exasperation, anger and grief caused him to lose patience, and he solved the problem once and for all by stepping back and aiming a powerful kick at the offending mechanism. It flew into pieces and the door swung open.

‘It is its fault that Hemmysby died out here,’ he said sullenly to his astonished colleagues. ‘He would have reached the altar if it had not seen fit to be awkward.’

‘Yes, but how shall we secure the church when we have finished?’ asked Thelnetham.

Langelee did not reply, and only indicated that his scholars should follow him inside. William was just drawing breath to begin the rite when there was a flurry of activity at the back of the church and people began to file in. They included members of the Guild of Saints, scholars from other Colleges and a smattering of townsmen. The Winwick men were neat and dignified in their new livery and Bartholomew felt shabby by comparison, even in his smartest clothes.

‘Damn!’ muttered Langelee. ‘This was meant to be a private affair, but now we shall have to provide wine and cakes for this horde, or we shall be seen as ungracious. Does anyone have any money? The honour of Michaelhouse is at stake here, so do not be miserly, for God’s sake.’

There was some discreet rummaging, followed by clinks as coins were handed over. They were pitifully few, and Cynric eyed them doubtfully when Langelee listed all that was needed.

‘And tell Agatha to make sure we are respectable,’ the Master ordered, before the book-bearer sped away. ‘No laundry hanging in the yard, and all our books must be displayed so that people think we have more of them than we do.’

‘Winwick has no right to foist itself on us today,’ hissed Thelnetham. ‘It is not part of the University yet. Not officially.’

‘No, but it will have to return the favour when we attend the funerals of Elvesmere and Ratclyf,’ said Langelee with grim satisfaction. ‘We shall be fed twice for its once.’

‘I would not mind a spell inside its lovely hall,’ said Suttone plaintively. ‘I have not been warm in days, and I dread the thought of winter with no money for more fuel.’

‘Winwick’s hall is not lovely,’ said Thelnetham in disdain. ‘It was built too fast, and its mortar was not given time to dry. It sways in the wind, and I should feel sick if I had to teach there.’

‘Perhaps that is why its Fellows are here,’ said William gleefully. ‘To stand in a building that does not swing about or reek of wet plaster.’

‘They came to pay their respects,’ said Clippesby quietly. He was pale, heavy-eyed, and his hair was standing up in all directions. Unusually, he had no animals with him, which made him seem oddly incomplete. ‘Do not denigrate them for that.’

Thus chastised, William began the ceremony – a brief service inside, followed by burial in the churchyard. There would be a more formal requiem later, when it could be properly organised.

‘Are you unwell, John?’ whispered Bartholomew, as they prepared to carry the coffin out.

‘No,’ replied Clippesby. ‘But I am worried about our sparrows. No one has seen them since Wednesday, and Ethel reminded me today that Hemmysby threw them some crumbs before he went to the debate. Crumbs left from a raisin tart.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. ‘You think he did something to these crumbs?’

‘Of course not. But he died the same day, and Ethel wonders if the poison was in the tart, not the cake from the debate. It would explain why we no longer have any sparrows.’

‘Have you been in his room to see whether any of this tart is left?’

‘Ethel thought it might be dangerous, so I decided to let you do it. She is terribly unsettled, Matt. She can sense something nasty in the offing, and so can I.’

‘What kind of “something nasty”?’

‘Bloodshed, as the University goes to war with the town and with itself.’

There was a respectful silence after Hemmysby had been lowered into the ground. Determined to give Agatha and Cynric as long as possible to prepare, Langelee let it stretch on for an inordinate amount of time. Eventually, he raised his head, and was just drawing breath to announce that refreshments would be available in Michaelhouse when Illesy pre-empted him.

‘We understand the distress involved in losing a Fellow,’ he declared in a ringing voice. ‘So to spare Michaelhouse the ordeal of entertaining, we have prepared a small collation at Winwick. Everyone here is invited.’

‘What presumption!’ spluttered Thelnetham, although his indignation went unheard in the general murmur of thanks from the other mourners. ‘It is our privilege to offer hospitality, not his.’

‘Christ!’ breathed Langelee, aghast. ‘Now we shall have to do the same for them – for Elvesmere and for Ratclyf. The cunning dogs have outmanoeuvred us!’

Resentment in every step, he went to lead the procession to Winwick’s repast, bristling with impotent pique when Illesy took the liberty of walking by his side. Bartholomew did not follow. He took a spade and began to fill in Hemmysby’s grave, feeling it was the least he could do to atone for his act of desecration. He had not been shovelling long when someone came to help. He assumed it was Clippesby and did not look up, so it was several moments before he realised it was Lawrence. The elderly physician said nothing, and they worked in silence until the task was done.

‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, leaning the spade against a wall. His best habit was streaked with dirt, and his boots were muddy. Somehow, Lawrence had contrived to remain considerably cleaner, although there was a smattering of soil in his white beard.

‘He will be in my prayers tonight,’ said Lawrence. ‘I knew him from Guild meetings, and thought him a fine priest. He even won Potmoor’s approbation, and he is not an easy man to please.’

‘Potmoor,’ said Bartholomew, seizing the opportunity to ask a guildsman about the person Edith thought had murdered her husband. ‘My brother-in-law did not like him very much…’

‘Then his antipathy was misplaced,’ said Lawrence firmly. ‘I became Potmoor’s physician after his brush with death, as you know, and I have seen nothing but goodness in him. He is not the evil villain everyone imagines, and is as sweet and munificent as any guildsman.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, thinking it was either a sad indictment of the other members, or Lawrence was unusually unperceptive. ‘Did Oswald and Potmoor quarrel much in Guild meetings?’

‘Not that I saw. Indeed, I was under the impression that they did a great deal of business together, so I am surprised to hear that Stanmore did not like him.’

‘You mean Oswald sold him cloth?’

‘I do not know the nature of their association, Matthew. You will have to ask Potmoor.’

Bartholomew doubted he would be very forthcoming. Then he remembered what Julitta had told him about Lawrence creeping through the town in the dark with Nerli, and supposed he should ask about that, too.

‘I am often called out in the middle of the night these days,’ he began, intending to steer the discussion to his questions as diplomatically as possible. ‘And–’

‘I am afraid I cannot accept more of your paupers,’ interrupted Lawrence apologetically. ‘Not with teaching about to start and Potmoor summoning me every day with headaches.’

‘Did he summon you at midnight the other evening?’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a placatory shrug when Lawrence regarded him sharply. ‘You were seen out with Nerli. He had a sword.’

‘You are mistaken. I rarely leave home after dark – I am too old. And while I did tend Potmoor on Friday, it was at dawn, not midnight. Nerli walked part of the way with me, but he was certainly not carrying a weapon. I suppose you spotted me from Julitta Holm’s boudoir. It is a bad idea to cuckold the town’s only surgeon, Matthew. You may need his help one day, and it would be awkward, to say the least.’

‘We meet to practise her reading,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Before dawn?’ asked Lawrence. He continued before Bartholomew could correct the misunderstanding. ‘Yet I understand the attraction. I might be tempted myself if I were twenty years younger. She is a splendid woman – beautiful and a sound financial head on her shoulders. Did you hear about the decision to suspend the beggars’ bread and the widows’ allowance? That was hers.’

‘I did hear, but I cannot believe she would do such a thing.’ Bartholomew was bemused by the skill with which Lawrence had taken control of the conversation.

‘It sounds heartless, but it is eminently sensible. The money will be lent to Winwick Hall, and will be repaid with interest next year – interest that can then be used to fund other worthy causes. Before she came along, the Guild’s finances were in a terrible state, with lots of money one week and none the next. Her plan will ensure a regular and predictable flow of cash.’

‘I see. But what happens to the beggars and widows in the interim?’

‘I imagine she will look after them herself. She is a generous soul, which is why she was invited to join the Guild. The same is true of all our members. Well, not your nephew, I am afraid to say. He was asked out of respect for his father, and because he inherited a vast fortune.’

‘I was told that Illesy arranged for him to be elected. And that Illesy will also recommend him for a Fellowship in Winwick Hall.’

‘Yes. It is astonishing how wealth opens doors.’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew sourly. ‘But to return to Friday–’

‘Poor Potmoor is not responding to my tincture of sage.’ Lawrence cut across him. ‘I must try something stronger. Valerian, perhaps. However, he is becoming exasperated with my inability to cure him, and may summon you. If he does, stay away from the subject of anatomy.’

‘Anatomy?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled by the advice. ‘I cannot imagine that will crop up.’

‘It might – ever since the sal ammoniac incident, he has become morbidly fascinated by what happens to a body after death. Personally, I do not consider it healthy. Not in a layman, at least. I have nothing against dissections being conducted by medici, as I have told you in the past, although I should not care to do it myself. Not even to an ear.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘An ear?’

‘I find them fascinating. Indeed, I have studied one specific condition, which is known in the north as Pig Ear. Shall I enlighten you?’

He began to hold forth, and although Bartholomew usually enjoyed listening to the medical musings of colleagues, the words washed over him virtually unheard that day. Instead, he stared down at the fresh pile of earth at his feet, and bade a final, silent farewell to Hemmysby.

Bartholomew and Lawrence arrived at Winwick Hall to find that the gates had been re-hung, but they did not meet in the middle, so Jekelyn was obliged to stand sentinel in the gap. The porter stepped aside when Lawrence informed him that Bartholomew was a guest, but with such obvious reluctance that he earned himself a sharp rebuke. As the two physicians crossed the yard, the sun came out, bathing the new College in a soft yellow light.

‘This really is a pretty place,’ said Bartholomew, stopping to admire it. ‘But is that a crack running down one wall?’

‘The mason assures us that it is quite normal, and to prove it, he dragged us all over Cambridge, pointing out fissures in other buildings. Even Michaelhouse has some.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘Great big ones that let the rain in.’

‘Do you like the Winwick coat of arms above the door? The artist finished it today, and the paint is still wet. We are glad – our founder arrives in three days for the beginning of term ceremony, and I imagine it will be the first thing he will look for.’

Bartholomew thought about the Stanton coat of arms at Michaelhouse, which had been so thoroughly battered by thirty-four years of weather that it was virtually invisible. It would not be long before it disappeared altogether, and future scholars would never know it had been there – assuming the College survived the double crisis of blackmail and losing all its money, of course.

‘We have sixty students now,’ said Lawrence, as he led the way inside. ‘It is far too many for a Provost and three Fellows, so we are recruiting reinforcements. It is a pity you know nothing about law, because I should love to have you here. Far more than your nephew.’

They entered the massive chamber that would serve as refectory and schoolroom. Fires blazed at either end, and the benches were unsullied by chips, scratches or stains, although there were not very many of them, and Bartholomew wondered if the Winwick scholars might have to dine in shifts. Light flooded through the windows, all of which were glazed, and plain white walls accentuated the vast airiness. There was a dais in the centre of the room, with a table that had been loaded with food and wine in a casual display of affluence.

The mourners had settled into three distinct groups. The Winwick Fellows were talking to de Stannell, every one of them splendid in his best tabard or robes of office. The Michaelhouse contingent was as far away from them as it was possible to be, huddled with scholars from King’s Hall, Bene’t and Gonville. Unfriendly glances at their hosts suggested they were disparaging them, although that did not stop anyone from availing himself of the refreshments. And finally there were the guildsmen, a group that included Julitta and Holm, Edith, Potmoor, Hugo, Olivia Knyt and other wealthy burgesses.

Bartholomew edged towards the latter, alarmed by the sight of his sister in company with the man she believed had murdered her husband. He arrived to find Olivia looking distressed.

‘I shall escort you home,’ said Potmoor solicitously. One hand was raised to his temple, and he looked tired. ‘My headache is worse, so I shall not be sorry to return to Chesterton early.’

‘It is a reminder of your holy visions, Father,’ said Hugo, looking around at the company to ensure they remembered that his sire had been so blessed.

‘Michael just told Olivia that her husband was poisoned,’ explained Edith to Bartholomew, before turning to look hard at Potmoor. Bartholomew flinched at the brazen accusation in her eyes. ‘He spotted telltale blue lesions on Hemmysby’s lips, and a hurried inspection revealed the same phenomenon on Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf as well.’

‘Lesions that are consistent with death from a poison named dormirella, apparently,’ added Hugo. His expression was difficult to read. ‘It might have gone undetected in all four victims, were it not for the good Brother’s vigilance.’

‘It is unfortunate that he was not here on Lammas Day,’ said Edith, her gaze still fixed on Potmoor. ‘He might have seen these marks on Oswald, too.’

There was no discernible reaction from Potmoor, although that was not surprising – the man was alleged to have been involved in countless deaths, and was far too wily to betray himself with careless flickers of guilt. He merely smiled without humour.

‘What a pity that no one will ever know. Oswald has been in the ground far too long now.’

‘I hope no one thinks I had anything to do with John’s demise,’ sniffed Olivia. ‘Our marriage was not perfect, but he was a good man and I loved him.’

‘Oswald had a meeting the night he died,’ said Edith before Bartholomew could stop her. ‘Was it with you, Master Potmoor?’

‘No,’ replied the felon, regarding her so coldly that Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Once he started opposing all my suggestions in Guild meetings, we had nothing more to say to each other.’

To draw his glittering attention away from her, Bartholomew blurted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Did you do business together before that, then?’

‘A little,’ said Potmoor shortly. ‘Come, Olivia. You are pale, and should lie down. These revelations have given you a nasty shock.’

He shoved roughly past Bartholomew, pulling Olivia with him. She went with obvious relief, clearly grateful to be away from the gathering. And as she did not seem to mind being whisked away so precipitously, perhaps she was glad for an opportunity to be alone with her lover, too.

‘Go after him, Matt,’ hissed Edith. ‘It is obvious that he is guilty. Make him confess!’

‘Not yet,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Later, when we have evidence to–’

‘We have it now,’ she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Namely, his gloating remark about Oswald’s body being too decayed to reveal evidence of poison. He killed my husband, just as he dispatched Olivia’s, and now he revels in the knowledge that he will not be caught. I cannot sleep at night for thinking about it.’

Bartholomew put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I will confront him, I promise, but when the time is right. It would be a shame if he escaped justice because we tackled him too soon.’ He changed the subject before she could argue. ‘Where is Richard? I thought he would have come today, given that Hemmysby was a fellow guildsman.’

‘He went out last night and has not yet returned.’ The threatened tears spilled, and she dabbed at them impatiently. ‘Oswald would have hated the way he carries on. It dishonours our name, and so does the company he keeps. Will you talk to him again, Matt?’

Bartholomew nodded, although he doubted it would do much good. He felt the familiar surge of anger towards his nephew for putting her through such needless anguish.

‘Oh, Lord!’ she gulped. ‘Here comes de Stannell! I wish he was not Guild Secretary – he keeps pestering me for money to loan to Winwick Hall.’

She ducked away, but de Stannell followed, and Bartholomew was about to rescue her when someone grabbed his hand. It was Julitta, and his skin tingled at her touch. He felt himself blush, and was glad Holm was not watching.

‘I have composed a poem,’ she confided happily. ‘Not a very good one, but the point is that you have taught me enough to manage such a task. I am delighted with myself!’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Perhaps I could visit, so you can recite it to me.’

‘I should like that very much, but we shall have to arrange for Will to be out. He does not like poetry, and would be bored.’

Bartholomew refrained from remarking that Holm would be bored with anything that did not revolve around himself, and turned the discussion to the Guild’s dubious notion of charity instead. ‘Do you really believe it is better to lend money to Winwick than to feed beggars and widows?’

Julitta sat on a bench, and indicated that he should perch next to her. ‘The transaction with the College will be like an endowment for the Guild: we set aside a specific sum now, and it will generate a regular income later. It means we shall be limited in the charity we can dispense this year, but our long-term future will be both secure and stable. Ultimately, it will help far more beggars and widows.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, and your brother-in-law would have supported the scheme unreservedly.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Poor Knyt spent far more than he raised, and our funds are at an all-time low. We are lucky Winwick agreed to our conditions, or the Guild might have been declared bankrupt.’

‘But what will happen to the poor in the meantime?’

Julitta patted his hand. ‘I shall not let them starve.’

‘I do not understand why Winwick needs so much money when its endowment comprises the tithes from several churches and manors. It is wealthy in its own right.’

‘There are details to resolve before the legacy comes into force, apparently. But you should be worrying about more important matters, such as who murdered those poor men. How are your investigations proceeding?’

‘Slowly,’ replied Bartholomew gloomily.

When Julitta hurried away to liberate Edith from de Stannell, Bartholomew went to talk to his fellow medici, who had taken up station near the wine.

‘Holm here aims to invent a tonic that will help scholars curb their baser instincts,’ said Rougham. He cast a pointed look at Julitta’s retreating form. ‘Perhaps you should test it for him, Bartholomew. We all know that you have had more lovers than Lucifer.’

‘Than Lucifer!’ echoed Meryfeld wonderingly, while Bartholomew thought that Rougham was a fine one to preach with his regular visits to prostitutes. ‘How do you know about Satan’s amorous interludes?’

‘I have heard reports,’ replied Rougham darkly. Then he turned wistful. ‘I wish I had your skill with remedies, Holm. A cure for lust will sell like hot cakes in a University town, and will make its creator very rich.’

‘Richer,’ corrected Holm, and shot Bartholomew a gloating glance. ‘I am already wealthy, thanks to my marriage. I am proud to call Julitta my wife, and no man will ever come between us.’

‘Tell us about your other cures, Holm,’ said Lawrence, transparently eager to avert a scene.

Holm was all smug confidence. ‘I have developed a paste that makes teeth white and strong within a month. No one need suffer from stained or broken fangs ever again.’

‘It mends them, too?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.

‘Yes, if applied properly. But it is nothing compared to my remedy for gout. I have discovered that a pinch of dormirella, along with a few other choice ingredients, will banish it totally.’

‘What other choice ingredients?’ asked Meryfeld icily. He liked making dangerous medicines for patients himself, and was obviously chagrined that the surgeon should do it, too.

‘I decline to say,’ replied Holm haughtily. ‘It is a secret.’

‘Dormirella has but one use – as a poison,’ said Bartholomew, and because Holm had irked him, he repeated Michael’s lie, aiming to see if he could fluster the surgeon into a confession. ‘Contrary to popular belief, it is not undetectable. Obvious signs appear after a while, as evidenced by Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. I do not suppose you treated them for gout, did you?’

Holm regarded him with such hatred that Bartholomew was hard-pressed not to recoil and, not for the first time in their acquaintance, he sensed a dangerous core beneath Holm’s vanity and casual ineptitude. He remembered the conversation about bryony, and his blood ran cold to think of Julitta living with such a man.

‘No,’ the surgeon replied shortly. ‘None were my patients.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Rougham. ‘You tended them all at one time or another. However, clients do die, even with the best of care, and no medicus can make a pie without breaking eggs.’

‘How many eggs do you break a week, Holm?’ asked Meryfeld conversationally. ‘Roughly.’

‘Two or three,’ replied Holm. He saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces – this was high for a man who only conducted a handful of procedures – and added, ‘Although I save far more. Cambridge is lucky to have me, and I shall be missed when I leave.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Lawrence, all amiable politeness.

‘London, to follow in your footsteps and offer my services to royalty. Julitta will come with me, of course. No man would be complete without a beloved wife at his side.’

Bartholomew tried to mask his dismay, but he knew he had failed when he saw the flash of spiteful triumph in the surgeon’s eyes.

‘The King has recently hired a Genoese surgeon, one very well versed in dissection,’ chatted Lawrence pleasantly. ‘Perhaps he will show you some of his techniques.’

‘I hope not,’ said Holm with a shudder. ‘Anatomy is an abomination.’

‘Oh fie!’ exclaimed Lawrence. ‘Studying cadavers will help improve your surgical skills.’

‘I am skilled enough already, thank you,’ said Holm coolly. ‘When you have seen one liver, heart and brain, you have seen them all. They are identical.’

‘I doubt the heart of an eighty-year-old woman is the same as that of an eight-year-old boy,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘All organs will vary with age, sex, health, size and a host of other factors.’

‘I agree,’ nodded Lawrence. ‘And it is my contention that studying these differences will allow us to understand the nature of such diseases as–’

‘Dissection will teach us nothing,’ interrupted Holm. ‘Especially as the specimens available are usually from criminals. They are hardly representative of the rest of us.’

‘Would you rather surgeons’ cadavers were used, then?’ asked Lawrence drolly.

‘Certainly not.’ Holm glared at Bartholomew. ‘And if you lay so much as a finger on mine when I go, I shall return from the dead to haunt you.’

‘Please,’ said Rougham with a shudder. ‘No jokes about necromancy around Bartholomew, if you please. It is rather too close to the truth to be amusing.’

‘Who was joking?’ asked Holm.

Eyer the apothecary was another guildsman to grace Winwick with his presence. He was standing by the food, his face grave with concentration as he chewed.

‘Ginger and cinnamon,’ he said, holding up a cake in one hand. Then he raised the other. ‘Nutmeg and honey. An apothecary should be able to list the ingredients in anything he eats.’

‘It must be a useful skill,’ said Bartholomew.

Eyer laughed. ‘Yes – for stealing recipes from secretive cooks. Actually, I am here under false pretences – I did not attend Hemmysby’s funeral, I came to deliver a poultice for Bon’s eyes. But I am glad I stayed, because I want to warn you to be cautious around Lawrence.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Lawrence? Why?’

‘He is not all he seems, and I do not like him.’

‘Really? He seems perfectly amiable to me.’

‘I knew him before we came here,’ explained the apothecary. ‘Years ago. I am not sure whether he will recall me, but I certainly remember him. It was in Oxford, where I was learning my trade and he was a master at the University. He made a mistake that caused a man’s death…’

‘It happens, unfortunately. Medicine is not an exact science.’

‘Well, this was pure ineptitude,’ said Eyer. ‘Even I, a mere apprentice, knew that liquorice root can be dangerous to certain patients. God only knows how he won a royal appointment, but perhaps we should not be surprised that the Queen did not last long in his care.’

Bartholomew disliked this sort of discussion, and wondered if Eyer’s willingness to disparage colleagues was why he himself always felt slightly reserved in the apothecary’s presence.

‘She was old,’ he said shortly. ‘And had been ill for some time.’

‘Yes, but ill with what?’ pressed Eyer. ‘Something that could have been cured by a competent practitioner? And there is something else that worries me, too. All the physicians buy powerful substances from me, and I always ask what they intend to do with them – it would not be the first time a patient has died because a medicus has failed to appreciate what he has purchased.’

‘We are trained to know–’ began Bartholomew.

Eyer cut across him. ‘Lawrence wanted dwale and hemlock for a specific client a few days ago, but I happened to meet her on my way here, and she had not been in need of them at all. He lied.’

‘Perhaps you misunderstood,’ said Bartholomew, acutely uncomfortable with the revelations.

‘I challenged him just now, but he denied the transaction ever took place, even though it is plainly written in my records and I remember the conversation perfectly. Perhaps the matter slipped his elderly mind, but it has left me very uneasy. Furthermore, since you and I spoke this morning, Nerli came and wanted rather a lot of realgar.’

‘Did you sell it to him?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘No. He claimed he wanted to set it alight, as he had read that it helps plaster to dry more quickly – a ridiculous assertion, as I am sure you will agree. I told him I had run out, because I was afraid Lawrence had sent him to get it so that he could add it to hemlock and dwale and have the makings of dormirella. However, I am not the only person who sells the stuff.’

‘You think they have acquired some elsewhere?’

Eyer nodded, then his eyes fell to the cakes he was holding. ‘Heavens! Do you think dormirella has been sprinkled on these?’

‘If so, I think you, of all people, would have noticed – it tastes faintly of garlic.’

Eyer looked relieved. ‘Of course! And there was no garlic here. However, one cannot be too careful.’ He dropped them on the floor, and wiped his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I shall make myself a purge immediately.’

‘I seriously doubt the poisoner will strike at quite so many people–’

‘Easy for you to say! You came when there was nothing left to eat. You are not at risk.’

After Eyer had raced away, Michael approached. The food and wine had run out, so most of the guests had gone home, and it was thus a good time to question the Winwick men about Elvesmere and Ratclyf. The monk wanted Bartholomew with him to gauge their reactions. As they walked to the other side of the hall, Bartholomew summarised his discussion with Eyer. Michael’s expression was thoughtful as he advanced on the Winwick men, but before he could speak, Nerli began a diatribe.

‘It was a shock to be told that our two colleagues had been poisoned, Brother,’ he declared. ‘Especially poor Ratclyf. We thought his weak heart had killed him.’

‘Which is what the killer intended,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘He no doubt believes that dormirella is undetectable, but he is sadly mistaken.’

‘What terrible things you know,’ said Bon wonderingly. ‘For once I am glad I am blind, because I should not like to see these blue-stained lips.’

‘You bought dwale and hemlock recently,’ said Michael to Lawrence, then turned to Nerli, ‘while you purchased realgar. It means the Fellows of Winwick Hall are in possession of three of the ingredients in dormirella – the toxin that killed your two friends.’

Nerli’s black eyes flashed with anger. ‘I did no such thing, and anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. I have no need to murder my colleagues. Or anyone else for that matter. In fact, I am disinclined to believe your tale of blue lips. You made it up.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bon, bemused. ‘It would be a wicked thing to do.’

‘To discredit Winwick Hall,’ snapped Nerli. ‘He is jealous of us, and would love to see us fail. But it is the other Colleges that will flounder. Michaelhouse, King’s Hall, Gonville, Bene’t – all will fall beneath the steady tread of our advancement.’

‘Easy, Nerli,’ said Lawrence uncomfortably. ‘There is no need for passion.’ He smiled at Michael, although the expression was more wary than happy. ‘I am afraid you are mistaken about my purchases, Brother. I never use dwale and hemlock, as I feel the risks outweigh the benefits. I always have.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you treat severe inflammations, tumours and swellings? Gentle treatments are rarely effective on the more serious ailments.’

‘I pray,’ replied Lawrence shortly, and turned back to Michael. ‘And Nerli is right – this tale of blue lips does seem outlandish. Are you sure about it?’

‘I am. But if you doubt me, come to St Mary the Great and look.’

Bartholomew was horrified, sure his artwork would never pass muster to sceptical eyes in the cold light of day. And what if the Winwick men wanted to inspect the rest of their colleagues’ remains, and the incisions were discovered?

‘No!’ said Nerli quickly. ‘We should leave our dead in peace. Have they not suffered enough? It would be wicked to disturb their rest.’

‘I agree,’ said Lawrence. ‘Indeed, I recommended that they all be buried by now – Michaelhouse did not dally with Hemmysby, and we should have afforded the same consideration to Elvesmere and Ratclyf.’

‘You know why we delayed,’ snapped Illesy. ‘Like Mistress Knyt, we wanted our colleagues buried on a Sunday, which is a holier day than–’

‘Superstition,’ interrupted Nerli disdainfully. ‘Or are you of the belief that our colleagues need all the advantages they can get when their souls are weighed?’

‘We all do,’ said Illesy shortly. ‘Fallible mortals that we are.’

Nerli made an angry gesture with his hand. ‘Regardless, I strongly protest against further indignities to their poor corpses. We should leave them alone.’

‘They will not object in the interests of truth,’ said Illesy, and shot Nerli a look that was difficult to interpret. ‘So follow me, and let us see this “evidence” for ourselves.’

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and marched towards the church, where Michael scowled at the proprietary way he flung open the door. They reached the Lady Chapel, and Illesy indicated with an imperious flick of his hand that his Fellows were to open the caskets.

‘You are the medicus, Lawrence,’ he said, watching Nerli wrestle with the clasps. ‘You examine them – not just Ratclyf and Elvesmere, but Knyt, too.’

‘I am not qualified to probe the secrets of corpses,’ protested the elderly medicus. ‘And while I have no objection to anatomical studies in principle, I do not want to engage in them myself.’

‘I am not asking you to carry out a dissection,’ said Illesy impatiently. ‘Just to look and see if they have blue lips. Come on, man! It cannot be that difficult.’

With considerable reluctance, Lawrence bent over the coffins, watched intently by Illesy, Nerli and Michael, while Bon cocked his head this way and that as he struggled to determine what was happening from the odd grunt and tut. Bartholomew stood well back, trying to decide whether to take to his heels if the deception was spotted, or stay and attempt to brazen it out.

‘Two or three tiny blue blemishes,’ said Lawrence eventually, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible. ‘On Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Nerli in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ replied Lawrence. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

But Nerli shook his head and backed away.

‘This is dreadful,’ whispered Bon. ‘I knew the other Colleges and the town were jealous of our good fortune, but I did not think their bile would extend to murder. Poor Elvesmere! He was my closest friend. And poor Ratclyf, too! He was making great strides towards finalising our College’s endowment. How shall we manage now he is gone?’

‘I wonder if these “great strides” troubled him,’ mused Illesy. ‘He spent so much time at prayer that I sometimes wondered whether he was entirely happy about some of the things he was obliged to do as bursar. Money matters are invariably sordid.’

‘I had to give him medicine for anxiety,’ put in Lawrence. ‘And then there was…’

‘Then there was what?’ asked Michael.

Lawrence’s expression was bleak. ‘I could not reveal this were he still alive, but I came in here on Tuesday, and he was on his knees by Elvesmere’s body, begging for forgiveness.’

Michael regarded him sharply. ‘Like a killer and his victim?’

Lawrence would not meet his eyes. ‘It appeared that way to me. And before you ask, I did not tell anyone, because it was none of my business.’

‘You misinterpreted what you saw,’ declared Illesy. ‘The culprit is someone outside the College. And do not say Potmoor, because poisons are not his style.’

It was hardly a resounding endorsement of his former employer’s innocence, and Michael was about to say so when Nerli spoke.

‘We shall bury all three today, and to Hell with waiting for Sunday. After all, we do not want anyone else to poke at them for ghoulish curiosity. It would be sacrilege, a crime I abhor with all my heart.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew guiltily. ‘Do you?’

All was bustle and flurry as preparations were made for interring the three dead men. Olivia Knyt was summoned, the gravedigger ordered to ready the holes he had dug, and a vicar hired. The priest was Heyford, ever eager for extra fees. He arrived with one hand to his stomach.

‘I was poisoned last night,’ he told Michael and Bartholomew. ‘I lay deadly sick until dawn, but God saw my suffering and I am now on the mend. Doubtless Potmoor would have preferred to incinerate me, but he dares not try that again. Did I tell you that the villain he engaged for that evil deed was not Fulbut at all, but someone from Winwick Hall?’

‘No,’ replied Michael, eyeing him warily. ‘How have you reached that conclusion?’

‘One of my parishioners saw a man racing away from St Clement’s shortly before the alarm was raised, and followed him to that Devil’s foundation. The scoundrel was in disguise, of course, so my parishioner could not tell which of these rogues is the culprit.’

‘Yet you come to bury their dead?’

Heyford sniffed. ‘I am prepared to overlook the connection for a shilling a corpse. Besides, I doubt they will attack me in St Mary the Great – not with you looking on.’

The vicar’s tale reminded Bartholomew of something he had all but forgotten. Moments before he had seen the smoke issuing from St Clement’s, a man in green had almost knocked him over. It had not occurred to him that it might have been the arsonist, especially once Fulbut had been mooted as the culprit.

‘What was he wearing?’ he asked.

‘A grass-coloured cloak,’ replied Heyford. ‘Why? Did you see him, too, and decide to keep the matter to yourself because it shows your accursed University in a bad light?’

‘How could he have seen anyone?’ asked Michael sharply. ‘He was too busy saving your life. And why have you waited until now to tell us what this witness saw?’

‘Because I have only just heard it myself. It came from Verius, who is never very forthcoming with the authorities. However, I shall expect you to investigate Winwick, and bring the villain to justice. I always said there was something diabolical about that College, and I was right!’

‘Has Heyford been poisoned, Matt?’ asked Michael, when the priest had gone to robe himself for his sombre duties.

‘Not with dormirella. No one recovers from that once it has been ingested.’ Then Bartholomew told him about the collision outside St Clement’s.

Michael was thoughtful. ‘I wonder which Winwick Fellow owns green clothes. Illesy, who will know all about murder after working for Potmoor? The sweetly smiling Lawrence with his Oxford connections? The sinister Nerli?’

‘Well, it was not Bon, as the man I saw was too tall. Of course, it could have been Holm.’

‘Holm?’ echoed Michael, startled. ‘Why would he run to Winwick?’

‘Because it is full of guildsmen who would give him sanctuary.’ Bartholomew was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘It is odd how everything revolves around that College: two of its scholars suffer premature deaths, it is largely responsible for the matriculand trouble, its Fellows possess the necessary ingredients for dormirella, and now the St Clement’s arsonist flees there.’

‘It is not odd, Matt,’ averred Michael. ‘It is downright suspicious.’

Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf were in the ground and the evidence of his handiwork was safely concealed. Langelee was relieved, too, because the hasty burial meant that Michaelhouse could not be expected to provide a reciprocal feast. When the last spadeful of earth was being patted down, Bartholomew went with Michael to talk to Verius. The ditcher was at home, regaling his wife with a romantic ballad. Again, Bartholomew was astounded that such a pure, clear voice should emanate from such a loutish individual.

‘Heyford told you?’ asked Verius crossly, when he heard why the two scholars had come. ‘I knew I should have kept it to myself. Now Potmoor will hear, and come to rail at me.’

‘It was Potmoor who set the church alight?’ asked Michael.

‘No, it was someone from Winwick Hall, but I imagine Potmoor hired him.’ Verius played nervously with the bandage on his thumb. ‘I was in the church at the time, hiding from a man I owe money to. I saw a rogue in a green cloak lurk in the shadows until Heyford was drunk, then step forward and set the altar cloth alight.’

‘And you followed the culprit to Winwick Hall?’ asked Michael.

Verius nodded. ‘Because I assumed Heyford would smell the smoke, and get up to douse the flames. I did not think one jug of ale would send him to sleep. He is a feeble–’

‘Winwick,’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘The man in the cloak walked in there with all the confidence of Satan, so it was clearly his home. The cloak had black edges, and the hood was up, which means I never saw his face. He was of average height and build, though, so it might have been any of that rabble.’

‘Not any of them,’ countered Ylaria. ‘It could not have been that horrible Uyten, because he is tall and brawny. And it could not have been Ratclyf or Bon, because they are small.’

‘True,’ nodded Verius. ‘You can eliminate them from your enquiries, Brother.’

‘Good,’ said Michael flatly. ‘That only leaves the Provost, two Fellows, sixty students and three dozen servants. Solving the riddle will be simplicity itself.’