Death of a Scholar

Chapter 13

By the time Fulbut had been taken to St Mary the Less, Meadowman had been sewn up, and the rest of the beadles briefed to keep watch for the mercenary’s escaped friends, it was very late. Bartholomew trudged wearily back to Michaelhouse, and fell into an uneasy doze in his storeroom, where the bubbles and hisses from the experiment brewing on the shelf above his head insinuated themselves disconcertingly into his dreams.

He woke early, aware that it was Monday, and that unless they produced twenty marks at noon, William’s intemperate pen might see the College destroyed. Again, he wondered what he would do if he lost his post. Would he be able to track down Matilde? But what about Julitta – could he really abandon her to the villainous Holm? Perhaps he should take her with him instead; they would be happy together, of that he was certain.

He lit a candle and went to check his experiments, but the wavering flame was unsuitable for assessing potentially toxic substances so he decided to wait until daybreak. He walked to the lavatorium, still pondering his future. He loved Matilde with an almost desperate passion, but Julitta would probably prove to be the better friend, and would never hurt him as Matilde had done.

‘Are you thinking about our mysteries?’ came Michael’s voice from behind, making him start. The monk had come to wash, retreating prudishly behind a wicker screen with a bucket of water. ‘You were in another world. I wished you good day twice without being acknowledged.’

‘Yes,’ lied Bartholomew, glad his friend could not see the flush of heat in his face. ‘What will you do now that Fulbut cannot tell you who paid him to murder your Junior Proctor?’

‘Verius might know. I shall visit his house as soon as Mass is over, and ask his wife where he is hiding. I hope he does not disappear as completely as Fulbut did, or we may never have answers.’

‘The culprit is Holm. When I sewed up Verius’s thumb, Julitta said that he and Holm were friends, but Holm would never demean himself with such an association. Ergo, he foisted himself on us for another reason – namely that he knew Verius and Fulbut were cronies, and was afraid that Fulbut had confided secrets which Verius might blurt out in his drunken stupor.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And what is Holm’s motive for wanting Felbrigge dead, pray?’

‘The same as I told you the last time you asked,’ said Bartholomew with asperity. ‘Felbrigge was a prominent figure in the Guild, and Holm was jealous. Once he saw how easy it was to dispatch rivals, he decided to rid himself of others, too: Elvesmere, Knyt and Hemmysby – all to give himself a louder voice. He went in disguise to Fulbut’s house last night, and stabbed him before he could blab any secrets.’

Michael’s response was a dismissive snort. ‘My money is on Lawrence. He was the first to arrive at Knyt’s deathbed, he bought dangerous compounds from the apothecary, he gave Ratclyf a “tonic” to cure his hangover–’

‘Ratclyf was not poisoned,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘Ratclyf was not poisoned with a detectable substance,’ corrected Michael. ‘But he is said to have had a weak heart, yet he had liquorice root in his purse. Lawrence professed to be surprised to see it there, but I imagine it came from him – a man who knew what the effects would be.’

‘You have no evidence to make that claim,’ argued Bartholomew, although he was sharply reminded of Eyer’s tale – that Lawrence had prescribed liquorice root to a patient in Oxford with fatal results. Was it possible that the elderly medicus had remembered the lesson, and had used it to eliminate an unwanted colleague? Then Bartholomew pulled himself together. Lawrence would never do such a terrible thing.

Michael continued with his catalogue of reasons. ‘He is a physician, yet he claims not to know dormirella; Holm overheard him arguing with Hemmysby the night before Hemmysby was murdered–’

‘Holm!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘Of course he will want others to come under suspicion.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Hemmysby was not the only one who incurred Lawrence’s ire: he quarrelled with Elvesmere over whether medico-legal issues are a legitimate field of study. And finally, he is physician to the brutal Potmoor – and Oxford-trained into the bargain.’

‘So am I,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘But Lawrence is a good man. He treats the poor.’

‘Quite! He is too kind and gentle. You must see it is an act. However, there are other suspects, too. I have grave reservations about Illesy, a man desperate to see his new College thrive, and who is also close to Potmoor. Then there is Potmoor himself.’

‘And Hugo,’ added Bartholomew. ‘We tend to overlook him, because he is in his father’s shadow, but I imagine he knows all about poisons and killing. I can certainly see him inveigling an invitation to Fulbut’s party and wielding a sly dagger.’

Michael nodded. ‘We also have Nerli. He was seen practising swordplay with Potmoor, and he is Lawrence’s armed escort for visits to Chesterton, although he denies any such skill–’

‘He studied at Salerno, but I have never heard of that university offering a Masters in Civil Law. Perhaps I should ask him about it.’

‘No – there are more important questions he should answer first. Such as why did he try to buy realgar and later deny it? Why was he so eager to see his colleagues buried? And why did he really order the remains of Ratclyf’s breakfast pottage thrown away? After all, if anyone knows about poisons, it will be a Florentine. Moreover, he has a dark and angry look that unsettles me.’

‘I suppose he is a little sinister.’

‘More than a little.’ Michael hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I am afraid your nephew is also on my list. He is not the man he was, Matt. He–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Richard may have changed, but he is not a killer.’

Michael made no reply, and there was an uncomfortable silence that lasted until the monk asked, ‘When will we know whether Hemmysby’s tart and my Lombard slices were poisoned?’

‘As soon as we can see well enough not to harm ourselves in the process.’

‘Good.’ There came the sound of a knife scraping across bristles.

‘Term starts tomorrow.’ Bartholomew slumped on a bench and did not try to keep the dejection from his voice. ‘We have six unsolved deaths, Winwick Hall will cause trouble with the other Colleges at the opening ceremony, and Marjory Starre thinks its founder might be assassinated when he visits. And to top it all, we are at the mercy of a blackmailer. I think we may be defeated this time, Brother.’

‘No,’ said the monk fiercely. ‘I am not going to lose my College to sly tactics, and a killer will not get the better of the Senior Proctor. I will think of something, do not worry.’

He emerged from the screen a new man: his hair was combed, his plump face was scrubbed pink and glowing, and he had donned a fresh habit. He looked fit, strong and he exuded confidence. Perhaps he would do what he promised, thought Bartholomew with a sudden surge of hope.

They walked into the storeroom just as Cynric began to ring the bell to wake the scholars for church. Bartholomew flung open the window shutters, and turned to the shelf on which he had left the crumbs soaking, only to find there was no trace of them. He looked around in consternation. The rank odour of his experiments lingered, although even that was rapidly dispersing in the fresh air.

‘You left the door unlocked,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘And I know exactly what happened.’

He stalked into Bartholomew’s bedchamber, where the medical students were donning their tabards and smoothing down their hair. As usual, those with real stubble had not bothered to shave, while those with boyish fluff were making a great show of shearing it off.

‘Who has been in the storeroom?’ Michael demanded without preamble.

‘All of us, sir,’ replied Aungel. He shrugged apologetically. ‘I know Doctor Bartholomew said not to, but there was a terrible smell, and when we looked inside, there was something brown and squishy on a high shelf. We assumed he had let something rot by mistake…’

‘What did you do with it?’ asked Bartholomew wearily.

‘Goodwyn thought it was releasing dangerous miasmas, which he said would make you ill when you sleep in there. So he told us to throw it in the midden.’

‘I did,’ drawled Goodwyn. ‘We cannot have you dead quite so early in the year. Who would teach us how to tend the sick?’

There was a defiant glint in his eye, and Bartholomew had taught enough students to know his authority was being challenged yet again. It could not be allowed to continue.

‘Leave,’ he ordered.

‘Leave what?’ asked Goodwyn insolently. ‘This room, so you can tell everyone that I am a bad influence on them? I think I shall stay, if it is all the same to you.’

‘Michaelhouse. I am not teaching disobedient pupils, and you have had your chance. See whether Winwick will take you. You are more suited to law than medicine anyway.’

‘But I do not want to study law,’ objected Goodwyn. ‘I like it here.’

‘You should have thought of that before defying me.’ Bartholomew turned to the rest of his silent, stunned class. ‘You will be late for Mass if you stand here with your mouths open.’

There was a concerted rush towards the door, and Bartholomew noted wryly that all were careful not to catch his eye.

‘You cannot dismiss me,’ said Goodwyn when they had gone. ‘I paid a term’s fees, which gives me the right to stay until Christmas. And Michaelhouse is not so rich that–’

‘Your money is forfeit,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Read the College statutes. We are not obliged to repay anything if a student is dismissed for bad behaviour – and yours has been abominable from the moment you stepped through our gates.’

The blood drained from Goodwyn’s face. ‘No,’ he said, uncertain for the first time. ‘If you must insist on ousting me, then I want my money back. It is a colossal sum.’

Cynric was by the door, curious as to what had precipitated the stampede into the yard.

‘Goodwyn is leaving,’ Bartholomew told the book-bearer briskly. ‘Help him pack, and escort him out. I want him gone by the time I return.’

Cynric’s grin said he would relish the task. Goodwyn opened his mouth to argue again, but Bartholomew turned on his heel and strode away. Michael followed.

‘I liked the lie about the statutes, Matt. You almost convinced me, and I know it is fiction.’

Bartholomew grinned, then went to the back of the kitchens, where he prodded about in the midden with a stick. ‘Here!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Yes! The crumbs are still in their dishes. The experiment is not ruined after all.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael impatiently.

‘Dormirella,’ replied Bartholomew, his exultation draining away as he realised the implications of his discovery. ‘The excitement of the debate probably let Hemmysby ward off the symptoms during the day, but they overpowered him when he was walking home in the evening. What he ate in the vestry later was irrelevant.’

‘So we wasted our time investigating that?’

Bartholomew nodded apologetically. ‘And all because I cannot tell the difference between digested raisin tart and digested fruitcake. Moreover, William said he saw Hemmysby that morning walking “oddly hunched, like Judas in the mystery plays”. He offered it up as evidence that Hemmysby had behaved suspiciously on the day that the Stanton Hutch went missing.’

‘But he had eaten the poison, and it had started to work,’ surmised Michael. ‘He might have consulted you at any other time, but he was enjoying his success at the Cambridge Debate too much. He was probably afraid you would order him to stay home and rest.’

‘I knew dormirella was not instantly incapacitating,’ said Bartholomew, scrubbing tiredly at his face. ‘I should have taken that into account when we were trying to work out what had happened. It was an unforgivable oversight on my part.’

‘And the Lombard slices? Are they poisoned, too?’

‘Oh, yes. Enough to kill a horse. Someone does not want you investigating, Brother.’

‘Then let us ensure the villain is right to be worried,’ said Michael grimly.

As Bartholomew listened to Suttone chanting Mass, the tension within him drained away. St Michael’s was a beautiful, peaceful place, and he felt his sagging spirits begin to revive. Unfortunately, his sense of tranquillity did not last long. There was shuffling in the nave, and when it was time for the Magnificat, dozens of bellowing voices joined in. Michael smiled beatifically.

‘I thought you might appreciate a little surprise,’ he told his shattered colleagues when it was over and he could make himself heard. ‘They will perform that piece tomorrow at St Mary the Great. Well? What did you think?’

‘Some of the words were recognisable,’ replied Langelee, the only one brave enough to venture an opinion. ‘And you can certainly be sure of making an impact.’

He indicated that Suttone was to continue the rite, and by the time it was over, the ambiguous remark had been forgotten. The choir lingered, fishing for compliments, and Bartholomew was astounded by the size of it. It comprised not only most of the town’s poor, but twice as many students as had been at the practice three days before, when fights had broken out over the bread and ale. The mix remained an uneasy one, and the atmosphere was decidedly edgy.

‘Are you sure it is wise to keep them in each other’s company?’ asked Bartholomew, as he and Michael walked back to the College. ‘Some almost came to blows during the Nunc Dimittus.’

‘They will not do it again,’ vowed Michael. ‘The ringleaders of that unedifying spectacle will be expelled, and the remainder will behave or they will follow, no matter how desperate they are for free food. Hah! There is de Stannell. I want a word with him.’

The deputy was loping along the High Street with a worried, distracted air that did nothing to inspire confidence in his ability to run a large and busy shire.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped when Michael hailed him. ‘I am busy.’

It was no way to address the University’s Senior Proctor, and Michael reined in his temper with difficulty. ‘There are rumours that the town will attack our procession tomorrow. How will you prevent it?’

‘The tale I have heard is that your clerks will attack each other,’ countered de Stannell. ‘Those who cannot find a College or a hostel want to vent their spleen on those who have. The predicted trouble has nothing to do with us, so the problem is yours to solve.’

‘You know perfectly well that if there is a spat, townsmen will join in,’ said Michael irritably. ‘You cannot skulk in your castle and pretend that nothing is happening.’

‘Declining to risk my troops to protect your scholars is not skulking,’ flashed de Stannell. ‘It is being prudent. If you do not like it, take it up with Tulyet when he returns.’

He stalked off, leaving Michael staring after him in exasperation. ‘I never thought to say Tulyet is a fool, but he must have been insane to have appointed that ape as his assistant.’

‘Speaking of apes, there is Holm,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where the surgeon was selling one of his new patent medicines to Uyten, assuring the student that his teeth would regrow within four weeks. ‘We should ask him about the quarrel he overheard between Hemmysby and Lawrence. Marjory Starre may have misunderstood what he told her.’

‘Let me do it,’ said Michael. ‘You can ask Uyten why he was in the King’s Head last night. He is slinking away now he has seen us looking. After him, Matt!’

Bartholomew ignored the order, preferring to question the surgeon than engage in an undignified chase up the High Street. But if he was expecting Holm to incriminate himself with careless slips of the tongue, he was to be disappointed.

‘Yes, I heard them,’ the surgeon said. ‘Lawrence was angry with Hemmysby on two counts. First, for saying that Winwick Hall has too great a say in Guild affairs, and second, for humiliating his colleagues at the debate. Hemmysby told him he would do both again if the opportunity arose.’

‘Hemmysby would never have said such a thing,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He–’

‘Why did you not tell us?’ asked Michael, raising a hand to warn Bartholomew into silence. ‘You knew he was murdered, and this might have a bearing on the case.’

‘Why should I help you? I do not care whether scholars are murdered or not.’ Holm looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘And stay away from Julitta. She belongs to me, and always will.’

He stalked away, but Michael grabbed Bartholomew’s arm before he could follow.

‘Leave him, Matt. He is not worth the trouble that would follow if you thumped him.’

‘A confession might follow if I thumped him,’ said Bartholomew sullenly.

‘One that would be retracted as soon as the danger was over, and that would make it more difficult to challenge him in the future. If we are going to charge him with anything, we need solid evidence, not suspicions. And especially not the suspicions of the man who hankers after his wife.’

Bartholomew did not answer, because he knew the monk was right. They returned to Michaelhouse, where he was pleased to find Goodwyn gone and Cynric reorganising the room. Then the breakfast bell chimed, and he walked to the hall, noting that no one ran up the stairs any more – the food simply did not warrant the effort.

‘Where is Clippesby?’ asked Langelee, after intoning one of his eclectic graces and indicating that his scholars could begin eating. A few did, but most looked at what had been provided with a mixture of revulsion and dismay.

‘With the chickens again,’ replied Thelnetham. ‘It is hardly natural, Master, and you should do something about it. Next term promises to be difficult, and his madness will put needless pressure on the rest of us. Dismiss him, and enrol a rational man in his place.’

‘He is not mad,’ countered William. ‘He is eccentric. And he is a better man than you.’

‘Defending the Dominicans?’ Thelnetham knew exactly how to needle the Franciscan. ‘Next you will be saying that you have decided to become one.’

‘Never,’ declared William hotly. ‘They are Satan-lovers, and God will–’

‘We should discuss hiring Hemmysby’s replacement soon,’ said Suttone, cutting into the burgeoning spat. ‘Preferably before term starts, as we cannot teach his classes as well as our own.’

‘How can we appoint a new Fellow?’ hissed Langelee irritably. ‘We are destitute, remember? Of course, we may not have to worry about next term if the blackmailer makes good on his threat. He is expecting twenty marks in four hours, and we do not have it.’

‘Damn you, William,’ muttered Thelnetham. ‘As if we did not have enough problems. It–’

‘The Saturday Sermon,’ interrupted Langelee, changing the subject before the Gilbertine could begin a tirade. ‘We postponed it until today because of Hemmysby. I know it is your turn to hold forth, Thelnetham, but I invited the scholars of Winwick Hall to speak instead. You can save whatever you have prepared for next week.’

‘Hah!’ crowed William. ‘He does not want to hear your rubbishy ideas, so he recruited better men.’

‘Actually, I did it so that Michael can quiz them about these murders,’ countered Langelee. ‘He tells me that they are among his suspects for killing Hemmysby, so who knows? Perhaps being in his victim’s home will unsettle the culprit and cause him to blurt out something incriminating.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I was wondering how I was going to ask more questions without alienating them with yet another visit.’

‘I shall be delighted to hear them preach,’ said Suttone. ‘I was impressed by Nerli at the debate, although the others were disappointing. Perhaps they will do better in less formal surroundings.’

‘Nerli will give the main address,’ said Langelee. ‘Afterwards, we shall attack his thesis, while his colleagues defend it. It will be disputation in its highest form, so that our new students can appreciate how it should be done.’

‘What an excellent idea, Master,’ said William. ‘It will be much better for them than listening to this boring Gilbertine.’

‘However, we must emerge victorious,’ Langelee went on, ignoring him. ‘So do anything you can to score a point, even if it is unethical. As I always tell my teammates at camp-ball games, it is not the taking part that is important – it is winning.’

As soon as breakfast was over, Bartholomew and Michael hurried to Verius’s house, to ask Ylaria where her husband might be hiding. Michael griped all the way, disgusted that his best singer should become unavailable the day before he was due to give his debut performance.

‘And do not suggest Isnard or one of the others,’ he grumbled, although Bartholomew knew better than to give advice where the choir was concerned. ‘They are hardly solo material.’

Ylaria invited them in, and both scholars were astonished to see Verius huddled by the fire – they had assumed he would vanish into the marshes with the others. Bartholomew felt a stab of shame when the ditcher glanced up to reveal two black eyes and a cut nose.

‘I heard you were a skilled fighter, Doctor,’ Verius said grudgingly. ‘But I never believed it, as you always seem so gentle. I was shocked when you used that stone on me. It was a low trick.’

‘So was trying to impale him with a sword,’ retorted Michael sternly. ‘You are lucky he was not similarly armed, or you would not be sitting here now, laughing about the situation.’

‘I am not laughing, believe me,’ muttered Verius ruefully.

Michael wiped the bench with a rag before gracing it with his ample posterior. ‘You have two choices: to tell me all you know of Fulbut and his business, or to hang.’

‘Fulbut?’ Ylaria turned angrily on her husband. ‘I thought I told you to send him packing when he came sniffing around the other day. I suppose you defied me and did his bidding anyway. You are a fool, Noll Verius! He has dragged you into dark business, just as I said he would.’

‘Very dark,’ agreed Michael. ‘Fulbut murdered my Junior Proctor, and for all I know, you helped him. So, what will it be, Verius? A full confession, or the noose?’

‘Confession,’ said Verius quickly. ‘Fulbut asked me to break into King’s Hall, while he visited the Carmelite Priory. I did it because I needed the money – not that I got much out of it. I filched a pewter jug, but it only fetched a penny at the market.’

‘Why attack King’s Hall and the Carmelites?’

‘Because they had not been raided before, and Fulbut said it meant they were not overly fussy about their security.’ Verius looked disgusted. ‘It might have been true of the friars, but he was wrong about King’s Hall. I was damn nearly caught!’

‘You were damn nearly caught in Winwick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that here was another crime carried out by an inept culprit who had failed to win much in the way of spoils. ‘You only managed to snag a cracked dish before Provost Illesy heard you and drove you off.’

Verius made a curious sideways shuffle, which was not quite quick enough to block the item in question from view. Michael shoved him aside and picked it up.

‘You risked the noose for this?’ he asked, shaking his head in incomprehension as he turned it over in his hands.

‘I do not like that College,’ said Verius sullenly. ‘So I went there to teach it a lesson for taking all the Guild of Saints’ money – funds that should be used for the poor. I hoped to get something better, obviously, but I did not see anything else worth having.’

‘What about all the other burglaries?’ asked Michael, and began to list them.

‘Not me or Fulbut,’ declared Verius. ‘I swear! Besides, he was in the marshes until recently, hiding out after shooting Felbrigge.’

‘Felbrigge,’ said Michael. ‘Yes, let us discuss him. I know Fulbut shot him, but on whose orders? Potmoor’s?’

‘No. Work from Potmoor has dried up since his resurrection.’ Verius shrugged. ‘I cannot prove it, but I thought Fulbut was hired by someone from the Guild of Saints. There are lots of nasty people in it these days – Hugo, the Winwick men, Meryfeld, the Frevill clan, Mistress Mortimer, the Tulyet cousins from the Hadstock Way, the Mayor, Julitta Holm–’

‘You mean Surgeon Holm,’ interrupted Bartholomew coolly.

‘I mean Julitta Holm. That surgeon is greedy and selfish, but she is worse.’

‘It is true,’ said Ylaria, nodding. ‘She used to give the Frail Sisters money, but she stopped when they declined to mend their ways. And it was her who told Holm to come here when you sewed up Noll’s thumb – she wanted to make sure he let nothing slip when he was drunk, see.’

‘Why would she do that?’ asked Bartholomew icily, knowing they were trying to divert attention from themselves by attacking the lady he loved.

‘Because she hired Fulbut,’ declared Verius, although the sly cant of his eyes said he was lying. ‘She must have heard Ylaria tell you that I cut myself and was getting drunk to deaden the pain. She thought I might blurt out my suspicions, so she and Holm came to stop me.’

‘And Noll did blurt,’ said Ylaria triumphantly. ‘He mentioned Fulbut, who he called the money soldier. Surgeon Holm ordered me to block his mouth, and when you forbade it, Julitta was very quick to say that Noll’s remarks were nonsense. See? It all makes sense!’

‘Enough fantasy,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Tell us about Fulbut.’

‘In the past, I helped him collect money,’ obliged Verius. ‘Money owed to Potmoor, usually. Sometimes we had to be a bit … forceful, but the pay was good. I did not want to work for a felon, obviously, but only a fool says no to Potmoor. I had no choice, Brother.’

‘Neither did Olivia Knyt, I imagine,’ said Ylaria, aiming again to distract them from her husband’s misdeeds. ‘And now she is carrying his child.’

‘She is pregnant?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’

‘She did not have to,’ replied Ylaria loftily. ‘I am a woman.’

Bartholomew pulled Michael to one side. ‘Actually, Ylaria may be right. Olivia bought bryony root, and we know that she and Potmoor are close…’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ snapped Michael impatiently.

‘Bryony does not ease colic, which is what Olivia told Eyer she wanted it for. However, it can be used to end unwanted pregnancies, although not always effectively.’

Michael turned back to Verius. ‘What else can you tell me about Fulbut? And think very carefully, because the paltry information you have provided so far is not enough to save you.’

‘But that is all there is!’ cried Verius, dismayed. ‘He was close-mouthed about his business, which is why Potmoor hired him.’ He flailed about for someone else to incriminate. ‘I know! Richard Stanmore. He is as nasty a fellow as I have ever … Oh, Christ!’ He put his hands over his face. ‘I forgot! He is the Doctor’s nephew!’

‘But that does not make him decent,’ put in Ylaria quickly. Bartholomew was sorry when he heard the desperation in her voice, unable to imagine the terror she must feel at the prospect of losing the man she loved to the scaffold. ‘He inherited none of his mother’s goodness, but all his sire’s avarice and cunning.’

‘Yes!’ Verius nodded eagerly. ‘Oswald Stanmore might have been nice to his family, but he was ruthless and deadly in business. He founded the Guild of Saints to make up for the bad things he did to others. And Richard is exactly the same, but with less charm.’

‘Is there no one you will not malign in the scramble to exonerate yourself?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘I want facts, not unfounded accusations.’

Verius frowned as he racked his brains for something else. ‘I can tell you that Fulbut was ordered to disappear after he shot Felbrigge. It was a clean kill and no one saw him, but it was part of the agreement that he should leave and never return, lest he be caught and forced to talk.’

‘But he did return, and someone stabbed him,’ said Michael. ‘So who was at his house last night?’

‘His soldier friends, but they will have melted into the Fens by now, so do not waste your time looking for them. That surly porter Jekelyn from Winwick Hall was there, too.’ Abruptly, Verius stopped speaking and stared at Michael. ‘I have just remembered something, Brother. Something true this time! Jekelyn was wearing a green cloak with black edging.’

‘Like the one on the man you followed after the St Clement’s fire?’ asked Bartholomew.

Verius nodded eagerly. ‘I cannot say for certain that Jekelyn set the fire, but the cloak was the same. It is either his, or he borrowed it.’

‘And you just happen to remember this now?’ asked Michael sceptically.

‘I really have,’ said Verius fervently. Then he looked sly. ‘My wits are awry from the blow the Doctor gave me. It is his fault that I forgot this important detail. Will this be enough to save me, Brother? I do not want to hang.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael, and sailed out of the house.

‘Here is the connection we have been looking for,’ said the monk, once he and Bartholomew were hurrying back down Bridge Street. ‘If Jekelyn killed Fulbut, then the chances are that a Winwick scholar ordered him to do it.’

‘Can we trust Verius’s testimony?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I did not see anyone in a green cloak last night.’

‘It did not occur to me to look, to be honest. I only had eyes for the villain who murdered my deputy. But yes, I think we can believe Verius about this. And it means that someone from Winwick hired Fulbut to shoot Felbrigge, then sent Jekelyn to kill him when he reneged on the pact to leave Cambridge.’

Bartholomew remained uncertain. ‘Verius was so desperate to exonerate himself that he would have said anything. So would Ylaria.’

‘Not everything they bleated was fiction – Oswald was ruthless and did indulge in dubious business practices. And I am afraid there may even be truth to their claims about Julitta. Several people have told me that she gives less money to worthy causes than she once did.’

‘Holm,’ said Bartholomew in disgust. ‘Her property is legally his now, and she is not at liberty to dispose of it as she likes. It is his fault that she can no longer be open-handed. Yet she remains loyal, and will never hear a bad word about him.’

‘I am inclined to share their views about Richard, too,’ Michael went on. ‘I have not wanted to worry you, but he has been at nearly every spat my beadles have had to quell of late. He does not fight himself, but stands in the shadows and goads them on.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew stubbornly. ‘I do not believe it.’

‘Well, there he is,’ said Michael, nodding across the street. ‘And to prove my point, he is in company with a lot of matriculands. And the reprehensible Goodwyn, who I imagine has wasted no time in blackening your name with him.’

‘I doubt Goodwyn’s opinion will make much difference to the way Richard sees me,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘We are not as close as we once were.’

Michael shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘It is difficult to believe he is Edith’s son. She is so honest and kind, while he is…’ He waved a hand to express words he did not like to speak. ‘Indeed, he makes me glad I do not have children. I should be mortified if they turned out like him.’

Many of the young men who formed the noisy, whooping pack had been in the King’s Head the previous night, and it was clear that they had not gone home as ordered, but had continued to carouse. The odour of ale was detectable from some distance, and most were unsteady on their feet. One lurched away suddenly and was sick against a wall. His cronies cheered.

Richard looked worse than most: his long hair was lank and greasy, his fine clothes were stained, and there were bags under his bloodshot eyes.

‘The Devil must be proud to see so many of his minions enrolling in your University,’ came a snide voice. It was Heyford. ‘I shall preach a sermon about it this afternoon.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘There is trouble enough already.’

‘Trouble that is none of the town’s making,’ retorted Heyford. ‘It is the University’s fault for inviting all these Satan-spawn to join it.’

‘They were not invited,’ objected Michael. ‘They just came.’

Heyford sniffed. ‘Regardless, I must warn people about tomorrow. There will be violence, bloodshed and chaos, and decent folk should stay indoors. Personally, I think you should delay the beginning of term ceremony until you have more control over your scholars.’

‘The dates are determined by statute,’ said Michael irritably. ‘We cannot change them to suit ourselves. But are you feeling better? You claimed you were poisoned yesterday.’

‘I was poisoned,’ declared Heyford. ‘By someone who hopes to still my tongue. But God protects me from evildoers, as you saw for yourself, Bartholomew, when He sent you to carry me from my burning church. Look at those villainous matriculands now! One has turned his bile on the Franciscans. I shall certainly include that in my sermon.’

He scurried away, and the two scholars turned to see Goodwyn taunting three novices. The Grey Friars recruited their members very young, and these were mere boys, frightened and uncomfortable in their new habits.

‘Enough,’ Michael ordered. The friars scurried away in relief. ‘You should know better.’

‘And so should you,’ sneered Goodwyn. ‘I am ousted from Michaelhouse, so you have no authority over me now. It was only a bit of fun anyway. Can no one take a joke?’

‘There is nothing amusing about bullying,’ said Michael.

‘No,’ agreed Goodwyn acidly. ‘Yet you do it with your levying of fines for whatever takes your fancy, while Bartholomew is a despot who terrifies his students.’

He made an obscene gesture, which caused his cronies to cheer. While Michael reasserted control with some scathing remarks that wiped the grins from their faces, Richard sidled towards Bartholomew.

‘I am sorry about last night,’ he whispered. ‘It was the ale speaking. Can we be friends again?’

‘We will always be friends,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the apology had sounded more sincere. ‘But you are breaking your mother’s heart with your riotous behaviour. Either stay and keep out of mischief, or leave so she cannot see how you spend your life.’

Something unpleasant flared in Richard’s eyes, although he inclined his head amiably enough. ‘You are right. I shall give your advice serious consideration.’

He sounded so disingenuous that a terrible thought insinuated itself into Bartholomew’s mind: perhaps Richard was involved in the mischief that was unfolding. He had changed so much that his family no longer recognised him, so who knew what he was capable of now?

‘Have you ever met a mercenary named Fulbut?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

Richard blinked. ‘Credit me with some taste! A mercen-ary indeed!’

‘Then what about Jekelyn, the porter from Winwick Hall?’

Richard indicated his companions. ‘These are the sons of knights, merchants and diplomats, and some have even been presented at Court. They are not porters, mercenaries or any other low-born scum. They are respectable.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘So I see.’

Richard scowled. ‘How can you criticise them when your patients include some of the worst rogues in the town? And do not preach virtue at me either, not when you are brazenly wooing Julitta Holm – a married woman.’

‘I hardly think–’

‘At least I offered to marry the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter,’ Richard forged on. ‘But you make Julitta a whore. It would be easy to get an annulment, given that I doubt her union with Holm has been consummated, but you prefer to sully her good name by visiting while he is out.’

Bartholomew was taken aback by his nephew’s assault. ‘I have not–’

Richard cut across him again. ‘Does she care for you, or is she just using you to punish her husband for taking Hugo as his lover? Personally, I hope she is acting to avenge herself on Holm, because I do not want her as an aunt.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Bartholomew coolly.

‘Because she inherited her father’s business acumen and his powerful persona. Such parents leave their mark, and shape us into what we become.’

And with that enigmatic remark, Richard turned on his heel and marched after his friends.

Bartholomew’s thoughts were in turmoil as he and Michael resumed their walk to Winwick, and he barely heard the monk’s diatribe on unruly matriculands. It had never occurred to him that Julitta could apply for an annulment. Would she do it? He thought she might – her marriage was a sham, after all. He was suddenly filled with hope for the future – until he remembered something else Richard had said, at which point he burned with shame. His love for her was damaging her reputation, given that half the town seemed to know about their trysts. It was hardly gallant, and Richard was right to condemn him for it.

He was sufficiently unsettled that when Michael was diverted from their mission by University business at St Mary the Great, he went to Milne Street to see Edith. It was partly to ensure that Richard’s night of debauchery had not upset her, but mostly because he was in need of a sympathetic ear. Unfortunately for him, she had uncovered another instance of Oswald’s dubious dealings, one that had deprived St John’s Hospital of a significant amount of money, and she was too distraught to think about anything else.

‘At first, I thought he had made a mistake,’ she whispered, ashen-faced. ‘But subsequent documents show that he knew exactly what he was doing. Perhaps I should have listened to Richard and burned everything, as then I would not have learned these horrible secrets. Have you made any progress with identifying his killer?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, hating to see the disappointment in her eyes. ‘Not yet.’

‘Then be careful. The deeper I delve, the more I realise that he dealt with some very unsavoury individuals. Potmoor was the worst, but he also worked with that loathsome Frevill clan, the Bishop, Mistress Mortimer, members of King’s Hall and Winwick, Mayor Heslarton…’

The list went on for some time, and Bartholomew listened with growing dismay. Some were convicted felons, most were of dubious probity, and the rest were powerful men who would resent being questioned. And while he had known that Oswald’s business practices were sometimes unethical, he had not appreciated quite how many were downright criminal.

Edith was so unsettled by her discoveries that it took a while to soothe her, and by the time he had succeeded, it did not seem appropriate to burden her with his own problems. He left her in a more quiescent state, although his own mind churned with uncertainty and torment. He collected Michael from the church, and they walked towards Winwick in silence. Bartholomew was so distracted by his concerns that he did not see Eyer until he had collided with him.

‘Ouch!’ The apothecary hopped about on one foot, his pink face twisted in pain. ‘Watch where you are going, Matt! Did you not hear me calling?’

‘Sorry.’ Here was one man Bartholomew could not afford to annoy: the health of the town’s poor would depend on his largesse until Michaelhouse was able to pay its Fellows’ stipends. Assuming the College was not dissolved in the interim, of course. ‘Did you want me for something?’

‘Only to invite you to try some of my mushroom wine. I added a dead squirrel to enhance fermentation, and I should like your opinion on the result.’

‘Gracious,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how to refuse without causing offence.

‘I appreciate that you will be busy with term starting tomorrow,’ Eyer went on, ‘so come next week, when things are quieter. I invited Bon, too. Many folk consider him peevish and unfriendly, but he is charm itself when you come to know him. Unlike his Winwick colleagues.’

‘Oh?’ probed Michael keenly. ‘You do not like Illesy, Lawrence and Nerli?’

‘Not really. Especially Lawrence. And there are rumours about all three – that they are closer than they should be to Potmoor, and that they aid him in his depredations.’

‘I cannot see Lawrence climbing through windows to rob wealthy homes,’ said Bartholomew, disliking the apothecary’s penchant for gossip and unfounded speculation.

Eyer regarded him soberly. ‘Perhaps not, but he is often out at night. Not visiting patients as he would have us believe, but on other business, about which he lies whenever I raise the subject. Nerli is often with him, and I do not believe it is for company as they claim. Meanwhile, Potmoor would be behind bars were it not for Illesy’s cunning legal advice.’

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when the apothecary had hurried away on an errand of mercy to Olivia Knyt, who was suffering from stomach cramps. ‘Potmoor would be in my cells if Illesy had not been there to supply fictitious alibis.’

‘He is not right about Lawrence, though.’ Bartholomew’s stomach lurched suddenly when the bells of St Mary the Great rang for sext. ‘It is noon, Brother! The extortionist will be waiting for his twenty marks.’

‘Forget about him. Langelee dealt with several matters of this nature when he worked for the Archbishop, and he says he has a plan. We must trust him to carry it out while we attack the villain on another front – by laying hold of his helpmeet Jekelyn.’

Winwick’s gates were off their hinges again when they arrived. There was no sign of the porter, so Bartholomew and Michael walked into the College unchallenged. Inside, they were greeted by uproar, and soon learned why. Illesy and his Fellows had gone to St Mary the Great to prepare for Michaelhouse’s ‘Saturday’ Sermon; unsupervised, the students had run riot.

There were at least sixty of them in the yard, watching a boxing match between servants. Wine was being swigged from flasks, bets were being placed, and there was a lot of yelling and cheering. Others were hanging out of the dormitory windows or lounging in corners to mutter in low voices. At least a dozen Frail Sisters were there, surrounded by pawing admirers.

‘It is more like a brothel than a College,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘The other foundations are right to voice their reservations about it. Illesy will have to make adjustments to discipline after tomorrow, or I shall petition for the place to be closed down.’

There was a sudden clatter on the far side of the yard. A tile had slipped from the roof, and the muddle of shards already on the ground indicated it was not the first time this had happened.

‘The builders cut corners in the race to finish Winwick by the beginning of term,’ said Bartholomew, squinting up at it. ‘Which means much of the work is shoddy. The roof should not be falling to pieces so soon, and nor should the plaster be flaking off the walls.’

‘A substandard hall is not Winwick’s only problem,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell told me that ninety new students have been accepted, more than all the other Colleges put together. They have been picked for their wealth, not for academic merit, so they will be all but impossible to teach.’

‘I cannot see the founder being impressed when he arrives tomorrow. Perhaps he will have second thoughts and withdraw his patronage.’ Bartholomew gestured at the noisy throng. ‘After all, he will not want this sort of lout braying that he was educated at Winwick Hall.’

‘What do you want?’ came a belligerent voice from behind them. They turned to see one of the matriculands who had been with Uyten in the King’s Head the previous night. He was older than most new students, and looked more like a soldier than a budding lawyer.

Michael regarded him coolly, disliking the lack of deference. ‘And who are you, pray?’

‘Sir Joshua Hardwell, not that it is any of your affair.’

‘Who is in charge while the Fellows are out?’ Michael kept his temper with difficulty.

‘I am,’ replied Hardwell. ‘But do not think you can fine us for drinking and gambling, because we will not be bound by your rules until tomorrow. And perhaps not even then. We all hail from important families, and we are not men to be restrained by silly strictures.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael, his confident tone suggesting that Winwick would lose that particular battle. ‘But we came to speak to Jekelyn, not you. Where is he?’

‘There,’ said Bartholomew, stabbing a finger towards the porter, who was sneaking towards the gates, resplendent in a green cloak with black edging. When he saw he had been spotted, an expression of alarm suffused Jekelyn’s face. He whipped around and aimed for the hall instead.

‘After him, Matt!’ cried Michael. ‘I shall be right behind you.’

Bartholomew darted towards the hall, swearing under his breath when he tripped over a carpenter. He had only just regained his balance when he heard a door slam at the back of the building. He hared towards it, and flung it open to see that it led to an orchard. Jekelyn was jigging through the trees, making for a gate at the far end, at which point he would disappear into the tangle of lanes that emptied on to the Market Square.

Bartholomew tore after him, but arrived to find the gate still closed – the porter had not yet gone through it. He stood still, listening intently. All he could hear was the students’ cheering. There was a snap behind him as a twig broke underfoot. He spun around quickly, but not quite fast enough. A cudgel swung towards him, and although he managed to throw up an arm to protect his head, the blow sent him flying. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his body.