Death of a Scholar

Chapter 14

Bartholomew was not sure how long it was before his wits stopped spinning, but when they did, he was lying on the ground with Michael leaning anxiously over him.

‘Thank God!’ breathed the monk, crossing himself. ‘For one dreadful moment I thought I was going to have to solve all these mysteries by myself.’

‘Thank you for your concern.’ Bartholomew winced as he sat up. ‘Where is Jekelyn?’

‘Gone. I could have followed, but I did not like to leave you here unattended.’ Michael hauled him to his feet. ‘We had better return to Michaelhouse, or the Saturday Sermon will have started and Langelee will have invited Illesy and his Fellows into our home for nothing.’

They left Winwick through the back gate, and hurried through streets that pulsed with tension, eventually reaching Michaelhouse to find it transformed. The yard had been swept, the gates washed, and the hall given a thorough scour, so it smelled clean and fresh. What little silver the College still possessed had been polished and placed on display, and the woodwork gleamed. William and Suttone had begged platters of delicacies from their friaries, while Thelnetham had borrowed money for wine. Deynman the Librarian had removed all the books from their chests and set them on shelves, and Agatha had broken out the ceremonial linen.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said, deliberately spilling a cup of claret, just as the Winwick men were shown in, ‘but never mind. If the stain does not come out, we shall throw this tablecloth away and buy another. Money is no object to us. Is it, Master?’

‘Not at all,’ declared Langelee. His eyes were puffy, as though he had been crying. Bartholomew was alarmed. What had happened to drive the manly Master to tears? ‘We older Colleges are rolling in it, and it is only the new ones that must rely on loans from town charities.’

‘We are proud of our association with the Guild of Saints,’ said Illesy icily. ‘Indeed, we have invited them here today. It is the first time we have been asked to take part in a disputation with another College, and it is only right that they should witness our victory.’

Langelee gaped at him. ‘I think you will find that it is my privilege to issue invitations to events in my own home.’

Bon smiled in his approximate direction. ‘Yes, but we knew you would not object. You must have great respect for our talents or you would not have solicited our presence here today.’

‘But the Guild has females in it!’ cried Thelnetham, appalled. ‘You know – women! And we do not allow those on the premises.’

‘I am sure you can make an exception just this once,’ said Illesy. ‘Ah! Here they come now.’

There was a commotion on the stairs, and Edith and Julitta walked in. Thelnetham crossed himself in abject horror, although the other Fellows were more concerned with who was on their heels. It was Potmoor, with Walter scurrying behind him. The porter was wringing his hands, and his lugubrious face was full of dismay and agitation.

‘I tried to keep him out,’ he wailed to Langelee. ‘But he looked at me, and the next thing I knew, he was across the threshold.’

Hugo and Holm were next, their heads inappropriately close as they sniggered at some private joke; Bartholomew bristled at the open insult to Julitta. De Stannell followed them, wearing the ceremonial robes of Deputy Sheriff, although had had evidently taken a tumble from his horse en route, as they were stained with muck from the road. Behind him was Meryfeld, grinning his amusement at the sight, with Eyer chatting amiably at his side.

‘Winwick did this on purpose,’ Langelee hissed furiously, as other guests entered in their wake and began to avail themselves of the refreshments. ‘They knew we would not expect to cater for so many, and want to humiliate us in front of all these dignitaries.’

‘Then they will not succeed,’ vowed Thelnetham. ‘I shall send to the Gilbertine Priory for more wine, even if it means I spend the rest of the year paying off the debt. I may not intend to stay here much longer, but I will not see our noses rubbed in the dirt.’

‘The Carmelites will help, too,’ declared Suttone, while the other Fellows made similar promises. Bartholomew had no Order to raid, but help came in the form of Edith, who whispered that she had apprentices waiting with edible offerings in the yard below.

‘Julitta warned me,’ she confided. ‘She does not want Michaelhouse embarrassed.’

‘No,’ agreed Julitta. ‘I do not like most of the Winwick men. Illesy is oily, Nerli is sinister, and Lawrence makes me sick with his false sweetness. Bon may be bad-tempered and acid-tongued, but I admire his honesty. He has been given the task of recruiting more masters, so I hope he picks some who are more pleasant than the current horde.’

Bartholomew wondered whether Richard would be among their number. Thoughts of his nephew reminded him of their last conversation, but before he could mention the prospect of Julitta annulling her unsatisfactory union with Holm, Edith spoke.

‘Richard told me a few moments ago that he has invited Goodwyn to stay. I would not mind, but Goodwyn promptly spouted a lot of lies about you – how you cheated him of his fees, how you stole a valuable hutch to buy medicine, how you itch to raise more felons from the dead…’

‘Perhaps the tale about William seeing the Dominican Prior riding across the sky with the Devil on his back originated with him, too,’ added Julitta. ‘It sounds like the kind of spiteful nonsense Goodwyn would invent.’

Bartholomew regarded her in horror. ‘What?’

‘Weasenham the stationer told me,’ replied Julitta. ‘But do not worry. I know it is a malicious fiction, and so will anyone else who matters. William would never have written such vile nonsense and given it to the scribes to copy. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Unwell,’ replied Bartholomew, looking away so he would not have to meet her eyes. The truth was that Langelee did not trust William to behave, so the Franciscan had been ordered to stay in his room until the debate was over.

‘Perhaps it is the shock of hearing what has been penned in his name,’ suggested Edith. ‘And there is more to come, apparently. Weasenham’s scribes were only given the first two pages, but have been informed that the finished tract comprises at least thirty more. Poor William! He must be mortified – terrified of what will be attributed to him next.’

‘Did these two pages mention apostolic poverty?’ asked Bartholomew nervously.

‘No, just the tale about Prior Morden,’ replied Edith. ‘The scribes are delighted by the prospect of copying more. They say theology has become boringly conventional since Linton Hall in Oxford got into trouble for its radical opinions.’

So the blackmailer had issued a warning, thought Bartholomew numbly: pay up or else. Clearly, whatever plan Langelee had devised to deal with the situation had been unsuccessful.

‘How are your investigations?’ asked Julitta, breaking into his tumbling thoughts. ‘Are you close to catching whoever murdered Hemmysby, Knyt and the others?’

‘Not really,’ replied Bartholomew, although he was barely aware of speaking. What would happen to Michaelhouse now? Would the Dominicans sue for defamation? Morden was a reasonable man, but he could not be expected to ignore that sort of insult. If he did, credulous people might assume the tale was true.

‘I wish he was not here,’ said Edith, indicating Potmoor with a nod of her head. ‘I find it difficult to be in the same room as him. Indeed, I declined the invitation to come today, which is why I did not mention it when you visited, Matt. But Julitta persuaded me to change my mind.’

‘I thought it would do her good,’ explained Julitta. ‘She spends far too much time poring over documents and fretting over her son these days. It is hardly healthy.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, grateful to her for enticing his sister out, even if it was only to a dull debate and some mediocre refreshments.

‘Yet she is right about Potmoor,’ Julitta went on. ‘It would not surprise me if he poisoned all those men, perhaps to ensure that they do not stand witness against him for robbing half the town. And look at how he smirks and simpers with Nerli and Lawrence.’

‘Nerli is exactly the kind of person I would expect Potmoor to befriend,’ said Edith sourly. ‘He is sinister and vicious, like the henchmen Potmoor employs. Lawrence is nice, though.’

Julitta’s expression was troubled. ‘Then why do I always feel that is what he wants me to think – that I am being manipulated with benign smiles and grandfatherly goodness?’

Eventually they moved away to talk to Clippesby, leaving Bartholomew to fret about the blackmailer’s mischief, Edith’s pallor and how to obtain a declaration of nullity. He was not left alone for long. Langelee approached, rubbing his swollen eyes.

‘Have you heard that the extortionist has struck?’ he spat angrily. ‘The bastard! After I gave him ten marks, too.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You paid him? What with?’

‘A loan from your sister. Do not glare at me! I did not tell her why I needed the money.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘You should not have done it! And certainly not without Michael and me there to help you lay hold of him when he came to collect.’

Langelee scowled. ‘I thought I could lay hold of him. After all, I outwitted several demands of this nature when I worked for the Archbishop. I took Walter and William with me, but he threw sand in my face, and was off before the other two could grab him.’

Bartholomew turned the Master’s head to the light, to examine his eyes. ‘So he avenged himself with the tale about Morden, and now we owe Edith ten marks into the bargain.’

‘Worse,’ said Langelee through gritted teeth. ‘Another note arrived a few moments ago. The rogue has issued a second demand.’

He held it out. Again, the clerkly writing was familiar, but Bartholomew still could not place it. His heart sank when he read that if fifty marks were not left at a particular tomb near the Round Church by midnight, more of William’s tract would be made public.

‘You have made the situation worse by attempting trickery,’ he said accusingly. ‘He will be on his guard now, and we may never catch him. Has Michael seen this?’

‘No – he has gone to question Weasenham’s scribes. Ah! Here he comes now.’

When he read the blackmailer’s latest communiqué, the monk’s expression turned more grim than ever. ‘William’s pages were left at the shop anonymously, along with payment for ten copies to be made,’ he reported tersely. ‘Weasenham showed me the originals. They are so obviously William’s that we will never deny it convincingly.’

‘It was just the bit about Prior Morden?’ asked Langelee anxiously.

Michael nodded. ‘Nothing about apostolic poverty yet, thank God.’ He indicated the new message. ‘Although that might change tomorrow. The culprit must hate us very deeply, to murder Hemmysby, steal the Stanton Hutch, and set the Dominicans at our throat.’

‘Or perhaps we are just the instrument with which he aims to damage the whole University,’ suggested Langelee soberly. ‘The King will be livid that the example of Linton Hall went unheeded, and might arrange for the whole studium generale to be put under interdict.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael, appalled. ‘You may be right.’

Langelee glanced behind him, where the hall teemed with people. ‘And the culprit might be here right now, so for God’s sake go and catch him before he succeeds.’

The thought that such a person – Hemmysby’s poisoner – might be settling himself comfortably on a bench in Michaelhouse’s hall made Bartholomew feel physically sick. He leaned against the wall at the back and watched the guests avail themselves of the refreshments, which were distributed in dribs and drabs as they arrived from the various priories. There was, however, no contribution from the Dominicans, despite repeated appeals from Clippesby.

Potmoor stood near the door, so as to be first at the platters when they appeared. Hugo and Holm were giggling together on his right, and de Stannell was on his left, nodding sycophantically at everything he said. Julitta sat by Edith, and Bartholomew was not sure who was comforting whom as they clutched each other’s hands. Holm’s fondness for Hugo was hurtful to Julitta, while Edith kept staring at the man she believed had murdered her husband.

The Fellows of Winwick stood near the dais, the brooding Nerli, Illesy with his fingers thick with rings, and Bon gripping Lawrence’s arm. Bartholomew watched the elderly medicus direct his charge to a chair. Were Julitta and Michael right to question Lawrence’s character? When the old man abandoned his Winwick colleagues to chat to Meryfeld and Eyer, Bartholomew joined the three of them, supposing he should try to find out.

‘If Holm really has discovered a cure for gout,’ Meryfeld was saying sulkily, ‘he should tell us what is in it, so we can help our own patients. It is unethical to keep the secret to himself.’

‘He does not want the competition,’ said Eyer, tactfully not mentioning that Meryfeld never shared his own remedies. ‘Still, he told me that his potion comprises mostly angelica and powdered chalk, so if it does not work, at least we can be assured that it will do no harm.’

He glanced at Lawrence, making it clear that he thought the same could not be said of his treatments. Lawrence only beamed back, and Bartholomew gazed at him in wonderment. Was he really such an innocent that he could not see the obvious challenge in the apothecary’s glare?

‘I thought you might like to read this,’ Lawrence said, tearing his eyes away from Eyer to hand Bartholomew a scroll. He smiled genially. ‘It is a little treatise I composed on ailments of the ears, which may be of interest to you.’

‘I dislike reading,’ declared Meryfeld, watching the parchment change hands with marked distaste. ‘I always say that if something needs to be written down, then it is not worth remembering.’

‘That is a crass remark to make in a hall of learning.’ They all turned to see Holm standing behind them. ‘What a fool you are, Meryfeld! No wonder Lawrence has poached all your best patients.’

‘I have done no such thing,’ objected Lawrence, blushing uncomfortably.

‘What about Potmoor, then?’ demanded Holm. ‘He was Meryfeld’s, but now he is yours.’

‘That was Potmoor’s decision, not mine.’ Lawrence flailed about for a way to change the subject. ‘What a delight it is to be here! I have never been inside before. It is very … cosy.’

‘He means poky,’ translated Holm, looking around disparagingly. ‘I cannot imagine it is pleasant in winter. None of the windows are glazed, and there is only one fireplace.’

‘We manage well enough,’ said Bartholomew, disliking criticism from such a quarter. Before he could add more, Holm was off on another contentious subject.

‘I fed some dormirella to a rat yesterday, and its lips have not turned blue, which is curious, given what Brother Michael claimed about the stuff.’

‘Why did you do such a thing?’ asked Bartholomew, immediately suspicious.

‘I have an enquiring mind, and I do not believe everything I am told.’

Holm looked so hard at Bartholomew that the physician wondered whether he knew the truth. If so, did it mean he was the killer, and had conducted the experiment in a panic? It certainly made sense that he was the blackmailer – by attacking Michaelhouse, he struck a blow at his rival for Julitta’s affections.

‘I had never heard of dormirella before Michael mentioned it the other day,’ said Lawrence amiably. ‘But Nerli tells me that burning it is an excellent way to dry wet plaster.’

‘Actually, it is not,’ countered Eyer. ‘I can suggest much better remedies. Cheaper ones, too. Using dormirella to air out rooms is like using wine to clean latrines.’

‘I see,’ said Lawrence, and hastened to change the subject again, presumably to conceal his ignorance. ‘Come with me to talk to Nerli, Matthew. He studied in Salerno, where you attended all those dissections. Perhaps you and he have mutual acquaintances.’

Holm immediately embarked on a vicious denunciation of anatomical studies, and Bartholomew was glad when Lawrence tugged him away, as he had no desire to listen to such an unintelligent tirade. He happened to glance back as he went, and was stunned by the look of black hatred on the surgeon’s face. It was quickly masked, but told him yet again that Holm was a dangerous adversary who meant him serious harm.

‘Ignore him,’ said Lawrence in a low voice. ‘He is a snake. Meanwhile, Meryfeld is an ass, and Eyer is a pompous bore with shameful secrets.’

The apothecary had said much the same about Lawrence, Bartholomew recalled. Had Lawrence heard that his past had been gossiped about, and decided to retaliate in kind? Bartholomew was no more comfortable listening to him than he had been listening to Eyer, but before he could change the subject, the elderly medicus began muttering in his ear.

‘It concerns an incident in Oxford many years ago, and–’

‘Be careful, Lawrence.’ Both physicians turned to see that Eyer had followed them. ‘Slander is a criminal offence, you know.’

Lawrence’s expression was coolly aloof. ‘It is only slander if the tale is untrue. But you seem to have done well for yourself in your current occupation, so let us say no more about it. Unless you want to confide in Matthew, of course. But that is your decision, not mine.’

Eyer scowled at him. ‘I think we both know that I have no choice after that cunning little speech.’ He addressed Bartholomew stiffly. ‘The truth is that I have not always been an apothecary. I was training to be a physician in Oxford, but was … asked to leave.’

‘Sent down,’ elaborated Lawrence. ‘For experimenting on patients before he was qualified – with herbs and potions of his own devising.’

‘Herbs and potions that worked,’ flashed Eyer. ‘My punishment was a gross miscarriage of justice, and all because the local apothecaries were jealous of my success. They hounded the Master of Balliol until he was forced to dismiss me. But I always was more interested in cures than diseases, so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lawrence archly. ‘But the episode means that you are unlikely to be endorsed by a professional body, so your practice here is almost certainly illegal. Charitably, I have turned a blind eye, but perhaps I should not have done.’

As trade associations tended to be fussy about who they sanctioned, and would certainly not overlook the kind of confrontation Lawrence had described, Bartholomew imagined Eyer probably was operating without the necessary licence. And Lawrence’s tale explained a great deal – the inconsistencies in Eyer’s stories about his past, his occasionally puzzling manner, and his trespassing on the physicians’ domain by making diagnoses. It also explained why Eyer had tried to blacken Lawrence’s name: it had been a pre-emptive strike against a man who could destroy him.

But for all his flaws, Eyer was a reliable practitioner, and Bartholomew had not forgotten his willingness to provide free medicines for the poor. Such generosity deserved its reward, and he felt it was incumbent on him to repair the rift if he could.

‘If you expose him, he will be forced to leave,’ he told Lawrence. ‘And we shall be deprived of a decent apothecary. That would be a pity – for us and our patients. Moreover, I have no complaints about the service he has provided, and neither have Rougham and Meryfeld.’

‘True,’ sighed Lawrence, and favoured Eyer with one of his kindly smiles. ‘Shall we be friends, then? Perhaps you will dine with me in Winwick one evening next week.’

Eyer muttered his acceptance and hurried to an open window, where he began to gulp down deep breaths of fresh air. Lawrence watched him thoughtfully, then resumed his walk towards Nerli without another word. Was that a flash of spiteful satisfaction in his eyes, Bartholomew wondered – glee that he had exposed the apothecary’s dubious past while deftly deflecting attention from his own? Bartholomew was tempted to pursue Eyer’s allegations, but pragmatism prevailed. He had more important questions to ask.

‘Did you argue with Hemmysby about him savaging your colleagues in St Mary the Great, and the fact that Winwick has too great a say in Guild politics?’

‘No,’ replied Lawrence, rather more sharply than was his wont. ‘As I have told you before. We had a mild exchange of opinion. William and Thelnetham were there in the vestry with us, so ask them about it if you do not believe me. They will confirm what I say.’

‘I meant after the first day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Were any threats exchanged then?’

Lawrence laughed, although there was a brittle quality to the guffaws. ‘Of course not! He was not the kind of fellow to issue threats, and I am sure you cannot imagine me doing it.’

He had hailed his Winwick colleagues before Bartholomew could question him further. Illesy scowled, Nerli grimaced, and Bon wore a moue of distaste, as if being in Michaelhouse was beneath him. None were expressions that encouraged Bartholomew to make them welcome, and he felt his hackles begin to rise. He struggled to mask his objection at having such people in his home.

‘Are we ready?’ Lawrence asked jovially. ‘The honour of Winwick rests in our hands today.’

‘We shall prevail,’ said Bon. ‘Michaelhouse’s reputation in the University is poor, while our minds are honed sharp.’

Bartholomew would not normally have challenged a guest, but there was something about the Winwick men that made him unwilling to stand meekly by while his colleagues were insulted.

‘I seem to recall that we destroyed you the last time we met in the debating chamber,’ he said coolly.

‘How kind of you to remind us just before we re-enter the fray,’ said Illesy. ‘However, your sly attempt to disconcert will not succeed, because this time the subject is law, not theology. Bon is right: we will prevail.’

‘Bartholomew has visited Salerno, Nerli,’ said Lawrence quickly, before a quarrel could erupt. ‘He witnessed a number of dissections there that–’

‘I never saw any dissections,’ interrupted Nerli indignantly. ‘How dare you suggest I might! I am a lawyer, not an anatomist.’

‘Of course,’ said Lawrence. ‘But I imagine you will find common acquaintances if you–’

‘No,’ said Nerli curtly. ‘I would never demean myself by associating with anyone who condoned such diabolical matters. We will share no mutual friends.’

‘I am sorry, Matthew,’ said Lawrence, as the Florentine stalked away. ‘I was not aware that he felt so negatively about dissection. It just goes to show that even those you think you know can surprise you sometimes. As you learned with Eyer just now.’

At last, Michael indicated to Bartholomew that he was ready to put more questions to the men from Winwick Hall. Dutifully, the physician stood at his side to watch for telling reactions.

‘Matt and I were in your domain earlier,’ Michael began pleasantly. ‘To speak to your porter. Unfortunately, he bolted when he saw us. Why would that be, do you think?’

‘Why did you want Jekelyn?’ asked Illesy suspiciously. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Michael. ‘He was at the home of a notorious mercenary last night – the one who murdered my Junior Proctor.’

‘Perhaps he was drunk, and did not know what he was doing,’ suggested Bon, turning his milky eyes towards the monk’s voice. ‘He is a terrible sot, and we should never have hired him.’

‘No, you should not,’ agreed Michael. ‘And you will notify me the moment he reappears.’

Illesy bristled. ‘You have no right to order us to–’

‘Your porter is implicated in the murder of a University proctor,’ interrupted Michael sharply. ‘So either you accede to my terms or I shall fine you for refusing to cooperate with an official investigation.’

‘Very well.’ Illesy capitulated with bad grace. ‘But I am sure he had nothing to do with Felbrigge’s death. His only crime will be a poor choice of friends.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael coldly. ‘He is a killer himself. He stabbed Fulbut.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Illesy. ‘However, even if you are right, all it means is that he has rid you of a dangerous assassin. Surely you will not punish him for that?’

‘Of course I will! We do not take justice into our own hands in Cambridge.’ Michael smiled without humour. ‘Incidentally, Fulbut took a while to die, and talked a great deal before breathing his last.’

There was silence, and Bartholomew read unease in all four Winwick men. Illesy began to fiddle with his rings, Lawrence gulped, Bon paled, and Nerli hissed between his teeth.

‘It seems murder is not Jekelyn’s only crime,’ Michael went on. ‘We also have reason to believe that he set fire to St Clement’s Church – a blaze in which its vicar might have died.’

‘No!’ breathed Lawrence, shocked. ‘Jekelyn would never do such a wicked thing.’

Nerli and Illesy exchanged a brief glance that suggested they were not so sure.

‘I agree,’ said Bon. ‘Jekelyn is…’ He trailed off when someone approached their group, and tilted his head in an effort to identify the footsteps. It was Potmoor with de Stannell at his heels.

‘Are you discussing Goodwyn’s transfer to Winwick Hall?’ asked the felon. ‘He tells me there is a misunderstanding with his fees, so I hope it can be resolved.’

‘It is not a misunderstanding,’ countered de Stannell. ‘Michaelhouse took the lad’s money, but now refuses to give it back. It is brazen theft.’

‘Goodwyn,’ sighed Michael. ‘What a sad case! The lad has a pox that eats the brain, and one cannot believe a word he says. Have you accepted him yet, Provost Illesy? If so, you might want to give him his own room, as Matt thinks his condition might be contagious.’

‘Heavens!’ gulped Illesy. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Michael regarded de Stannell kindly. ‘You are probably safe, but you might want to take a few precautions. Eat a pound of raisins every day, and abstain from meat for a month.’

‘I need not worry,’ declared Potmoor smugly, although the deputy’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I have God’s protection, which is much better than raisins.’

He began to hold forth about his resurrection, and the Winwick men took the opportunity to drift away. Frustrated, Michael signalled to Langelee that the debate might as well start, muttering to Bartholomew that they were wasting their breath by trying to wring clues from the likes of Illesy, Bon, Nerli and Lawrence. They were lawyers, and it would be easier to lay hold of an eel.

‘Nerli is the main speaker today,’ announced the Master, once he had welcomed everyone and issued the unusual edict that the occasion would be in the vernacular, out of courtesy to those guests who had no Latin. ‘He will outline his thesis, Michaelhouse will rebut it, and Winwick will try to respond. Whichever side offers the best arguments will be deemed the victor.’

‘And what is your thesis today, Signor Nerli?’ asked Suttone pleasantly.

‘That the Bible lays out clear guidelines for the levying of taxes,’ replied the Florentine, in English that was a good deal less thickly accented than his Latin.

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ muttered Michael. ‘Could he not have chosen a more lively topic? I know nothing about the theology of taxation. How am I supposed to defeat him?’

‘Cheat,’ Langelee murmured back. ‘And that is an order.’

As there were not enough benches, the Michaelhouse Fellows were obliged to stand at the back of the hall. Bartholomew did not mind, as it gave him an opportunity to observe his suspects without them realising what he was doing. As far as he was concerned, there were only five: Nerli, Illesy, Holm, Potmoor and Hugo. He ignored the nagging voice which told him that perhaps Richard should also be included.

He watched Nerli first, noting the man’s arrogant confidence. If the Florentine had poisoned Hemmysby, then he suffered no remorse about being in his victim’s home. Meanwhile, Holm and Hugo sat indecently close together, whispering and giggling like teenagers. Potmoor was in the front row, looking around him with so much interest that Bartholomew wondered whether he was assessing it for a future break-in. Illesy was staring at Nerli, but creases of concern in his smooth face suggested that his mind was not on his colleague’s monologue.

‘He spoke well,’ murmured Langelee, when Nerli eventually sat and Suttone rose to refute some of his points.

Michael nodded. ‘His slight hesitation of manner says that he has not taken part in many of these occasions, but once he gains some experience, he will be formidable.’

‘He told me that he has been a scholar all his life,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How much more experience does he need?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Perhaps debates do not take this form in Salerno.’

Bartholomew was about to inform him that they did when Suttone began his analysis. The Carmelite was followed by Illesy, who spoke for some time without saying anything of substance.

‘He has a slippery tongue,’ murmured Michael. ‘I am not surprised he kept Potmoor out of trouble for so long.’

Bartholomew was startled when Langelee called on him to take the floor. He was not a lawyer or a theologian, and had expected to be spared. Then he saw that Clippesby had Ethel on his head, and understood the Master’s reluctance to rely on the Dominican to make a good impression. He stepped on to the dais, and managed to acquit himself adequately. Edith and Julitta clapped when he had finished, which put Holm in a jealous sulk.

Bon made some stumbling, uncertain points that Michael refuted with his usual incisive logic, and then it was Lawrence’s turn – a good-natured but rambling discourse that was difficult to follow. Langelee had saved the best for last. Thelnetham was an eloquent and witty orator, and some of his remarks had everyone roaring with laughter, no mean feat given the dry subject matter. The Gilbertine dismissed Lawrence with a few well-chosen words, destroyed Illesy in a sentence, picked Bon up on a few points that Michael had missed, then neatly demolished Nerli.

There was no need for Langelee to announce a winner, because it was obvious. The Winwick Fellows nodded curt acknowledgement of the applause that followed the Master’s concluding remarks, and prepared to leave.

‘I am sorry you felt the need to embarrass us a second time,’ said Bon coldly, when the Michaelhouse men went to thank them for coming. ‘We are still novices, and you might have made allowances accordingly.’

‘Moreover, I am not sure that all Thelnetham’s points were legitimate,’ added Nerli. ‘I shall check his references when I get home, and will be disappointed if he fabricated them.’

‘Of course he did not fabricate them,’ declared Langelee, conveniently forgetting that he had charged his Fellows to cheat. ‘We are simply more masterly than you in the debating chamber.’

‘For now,’ said Bon sulkily. ‘But that will change – unlike your status as inferior College. I may not be able to see your hall, but I warrant it is not as fine as ours. And we have more students.’

‘Come,’ said Lawrence, tugging on his arm before he could add more. ‘Our lads are meant to be reading Gratian’s Decretum, but they are a lively horde, and I have a feeling we shall find them doing something else. Thank you for your hospitality, Langelee. We enjoyed ourselves very much.’

With a stiff bow, Illesy swept from the hall, his Fellows at his heels. Most guildsmen followed with relief, having been extremely bored. Bartholomew went to speak to Edith, who confessed miserably that she did not want to go home in case Richard was there. She held a book, and twisted it agitatedly in her hands as she spoke. It had a gold-leaf cover, and was clearly valuable. Puzzled, Bartholomew took it from her. Inside were drawings of exotic beasts.

‘Clippesby asked me to look after it,’ she explained. ‘Ethel wants to read it, apparently, but he is afraid her beak will damage the binding. I assume he refers to the chicken and not a person? It is sometimes difficult to be sure with him.’

‘When did he give it to you?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘Just now.’ Edith frowned at the urgency in his voice. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’

‘Yes! I suspect this is the tome that Thelnetham left as a pledge in the Stanton Hutch.’

Like many people, the Gilbertine’s ears were attuned to hearing his name, even across a large room. Keen to know what was being said about him, he sailed over.

‘My bestiary!’ he cried, snatching it to clutch against his breast. His delighted shriek brought the other Fellows clustering around. ‘Thank God! I shall not ask how you came by it, Matthew – I am just glad to have it back. Now I can leave this accursed place with all that is mine.’

‘You will have to wait for another College to accept you first,’ said Langelee. ‘And–’

‘One has,’ interrupted Thelnetham. ‘Bon has just offered me a Fellowship at Winwick Hall. He was impressed by my performance today, and says I am exactly the kind of man he needs. So I resign from this house of thieves, fools and lunatics, and good riddance to you all!’

‘You cannot go to Winwick!’ cried Langelee, dismayed at the notion of losing his best disputant. He flailed around for a reason that would convince. ‘You told us that its hall has been raised too quickly, and sways in the wind. You said it would make you sick if–’

‘I have changed my mind. And now, if you will excuse me, I am going to pack.’

With mixed emotions, the other Fellows watched him flounce away. His acerbic tongue and haughty manners were a trial, but he was a gifted teacher, and he certainly raised Michaelhouse’s academic standing. They would miss him, no matter what William might claim to the contrary.

Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the Gilbertine’s retreating form. The return of the bestiary answered a lot of questions, and he now knew exactly where the Stanton Hutch was, and who had put it there. ‘Where is Clippesby?’ he asked.

‘In the henhouse, I expect,’ replied Langelee, after a quick glance around established that the Dominican was no longer in the hall. ‘He spends all his time there these days, except when I roust him out to attend his duties. However, I wish I had left him alone today. He should not have attended the debate with a chicken on his head.’

‘The Stanton Hutch is in there,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘We thought from the start that the culprit was someone in College, and he – citing Ethel as his source – has been oddly insistent that our money will be returned. He took it, then left the cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, probably to ease our minds.’

‘He might be a lunatic, but he is not a thief,’ said Michael, shocked. ‘He would never steal from us or anyone else. And never put us through such torment, either.’

‘Well, there is only one way to find out,’ said Langelee. ‘Suttone, stay here and ensure that our remaining guests do not run off with the tablecloths. Bartholomew and Michael, come with me.’

He led the way to the orchard at a rapid clip, and began to bawl for the Dominican as he neared the coop. Clippesby’s muted reply could be heard within. As he declined to come out, Bartholomew was obliged to crawl in after him.

‘Oh, John,’ he said sadly, when he saw the missing chest against the back wall, partly covered in straw and with Ethel preening on top of it. ‘What have you done?’

Clippesby did not answer, and only watched as Bartholomew pulled the hutch outside, where Langelee flung open the lid and pawed through it. When the Dominican finally emerged, Bartholomew was appalled by the change in him. He was thin, and his face was grey with strain.

‘It is all here,’ said Langelee in relief. ‘Every penny. We are saved.’ He rounded on Clippesby. ‘But you owe us an explanation.’

‘I brought it here, as it was the safest place I could think of,’ replied Clippesby. ‘And I have stayed with it as often as I can. So has Ethel. But the damp was beginning to damage Thelnetham’s bestiary, so I took it out and gave it to Edith to mind.’

‘But why?’ asked Langelee, stunned. ‘You are not a thief. And please do not say Ethel did it.’

‘Do not be silly, Master,’ said Clippesby irritably. ‘She could not possibly lift something this heavy. I took it from the cellar because a thief did intend to make off with it. He has been burgling other Colleges with great success. You must have heard about him.’

‘Yes,’ said Langelee, struggling for patience. ‘But how did you know he wanted our hutch?’

‘Because Hemmysby told me. It was his idea to “steal” it and put it somewhere else. He made me promise not to tell anyone, and the hens said–’

‘Hemmysby told you?’ interrupted Bartholomew.

‘Yes,’ replied Clippesby. ‘He overheard some rats talking at a meeting of the Guild of Saints. They were discussing a plan to filch the Stanton Hutch from our cellar.’

‘I imagine he did hear rats,’ said Langelee wryly. ‘But human ones, not rodents.’

Clippesby frowned. ‘He was using the word as a term of abuse? He did not mean animals?’

‘Wait,’ said Michael, holding up his hand. ‘Are you saying that the people responsible for all these burglaries are guildsmen?’

‘Well, Hemmysby referred to the ones who aimed to go after us as “the rats in the Guild”. He was determined that they would not have our property, and asked me to help him thwart them. And we did: Ethel saw them invade our College on Friday, and leave empty-handed and furious. Poor Hemmysby was dead by then, of course, so never knew that his precautions had paid off.’

‘What did these villains look like?’ demanded Michael.

‘Ethel could not tell, because they kept their faces hidden. All she can say is that one was bigger than the other, and both were well dressed.’

Langelee shook his head in bewilderment at the revelations. ‘So why were the deeds and the Stanton Cup in Hemmysby’s quarters? Bartholomew thinks you put them there.’

Clippesby hung his head. ‘I could not bear your distress, so I took them from the chest, and was going to ask Hemmysby to return them to you while we kept the coins hidden until the danger was past. But he died and you ransacked his room…’

‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Because he heard the thieves plotting and so was in a position to expose them?’

‘He could not expose them because he did not see their faces,’ said Clippesby unhappily. ‘That was the problem.’

‘Then was he poisoned because they knew he had listened in on one of their discussions?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘I do not know,’ said Clippesby wretchedly. ‘I have thought of little else for days.’

‘Why did he not tell me his suspicions?’ demanded Langelee. ‘I am not exactly a novice in thwarting criminals.’

‘Because you always discuss such matters with the Fellows,’ explained Clippesby. ‘And he was afraid that William or Thelnetham would blurt out the secret in one of their stupid rows. He also thought that I could find a more secure hiding place than anyone else.’

‘You have,’ conceded Langelee grudgingly. ‘I cannot imagine any thief searching a hencoop.’

‘Yet I do not think they left Michaelhouse empty-handed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They would have had to go through the kitchen to reach the cellar, and what was lying on the kitchen table on Friday? William’s tract, left there by Suttone for Agatha to burn on the fire. They must have snagged it on their way out, in revenge for being foiled over the hutch.’

‘Which means that the thieves and the blackmailers are one and the same, just as we thought,’ surmised Michael. ‘And almost certainly the poisoners, too.’

Langelee hefted the hutch on to his shoulder. ‘I shall look after this now. However, I want all the Fellows – except Thelnetham, of course – available at midnight tonight.’

‘Why?’ asked Clippesby.

‘Because instead of fifty marks behind this tomb, these damned rogues are going to find some very angry Michaelhouse men.’

While Michael disappeared to follow some leads he claimed to have gleaned from interviewing the College’s guests that day, Bartholomew escorted Edith home to Milne Street, where both were relieved to find that Richard and Goodwyn were out. With a weary sigh, she summoned Zachary Steward, and opened the box containing her husband’s documents.

‘She is finding more evidence of Master Stanmore’s trickery now we are nearing the bottom,’ Zachary confided, watching her. ‘Obviously, he did not have time to dig this deep when he set about destroying what he did not want his family to see.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘How do you know–’

‘I was his right-hand man for fifteen years. He did very little without my knowledge, and I am amazed that he managed to wipe so much clean before he passed away. I noticed the tang of burning around him several times during his last few days, but it never occurred to me that he was destroying evidence until this week.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘If you are right, then it means he knew he was going to die, and took steps to put his affairs in order first. To protect his reputation.’

Zachary nodded towards Edith. ‘To protect her. You already knew he was not always ethical, and he did not care about anyone else, except perhaps Richard. But you are right: I think he did know his end was near, although I have no idea how.’

The revelation troubled Bartholomew, as did the notion that the discoveries Edith had made were probably slight compared to what Oswald had managed to conceal. He watched the pair work for a moment, then took his leave, loath to be a witness when she found something else that would upset her.

He hesitated once he was outside, not sure where to go. He did not want to return to College, where all the talk in the conclave would be about Thelnetham’s defection, Clippesby’s antics and the blackmailers, and he had no patients needing attention. He found himself walking towards the High Street, feeling a sudden need for the haven of Eyer’s shop. He arrived to find the apothecary preparing a salve for Bon, steeping ragwort and rose petals in a bowl of water. Eyer’s welcoming smile was strained; clearly, he had not forgotten what had transpired earlier.

‘May I have some of that for Langelee?’ Bartholomew asked, nodding towards the dish. ‘Someone threw sand in his eyes.’

‘At a camp-ball practice? I do not know why that game is legal. It nearly always ends with someone being hurt.’

‘I think that is why Langelee likes it.’ Bartholomew sat down and helped himself to a stick of liquorice root. He could not remember the last time he had eaten a decent meal, and its earthy flavour reminded him that he was hungry. ‘It caters to the innate soldier in him.’

‘Did you mean what you said in Michaelhouse?’ blurted Eyer. ‘You will still use my services, even though you now know me as a disgraced physician?’

‘I know you as a good apothecary – which is all that matters, as far as I am concerned. And I shall say so to Rougham and Meryfeld if they ask.’

Eyer grasped Bartholomew’s shoulder in gratitude. Neither spoke for a while, and they sat in companionable silence, Bartholomew relaxing after his fraught day and Eyer concentrating on his salve. Eventually, the apothecary began to confide details of the Oxford debacle, and Bartholomew felt the reserve that had existed between them begin to lift. He was sorry the matter had not come to light sooner, as it would have eliminated weeks of unnecessary wariness.

‘Yet perhaps it is as well I did not become a scholar,’ Eyer concluded ruefully. ‘I barely understood a word of that debate, and the whole affair was unconscionably dull. But you look tired and sad, my friend. Would you care for a bowl of frog and bean soup? It is very nutritious.’

Bartholomew accepted, and was surprised to find it reasonably palatable, although he declined to gnaw on the bones at the bottom, as the apothecary encouraged him to do.

Alone in his storeroom later, he tried to work on his lectures for the third week of term, but his thoughts kept returning to his worries. He tried to push them to the back of his mind, but he knew Galen’s De elementis too well for it to hold his attention, and he was eventually forced to concede that he was wasting his time.

Idly, he picked up the scroll that Lawrence had lent him. He did not think he would be able to concentrate on it any more than he had his work, but Lawrence had an easy style, and he soon became engrossed. He had almost finished, when something made him frown. Lawrence described a condition known in the North Country as Pig Ear, defined as a thickening of the visible part of the ear following a blow or other trauma. Langelee was beginning to show signs of it from his love of camp-ball, but it was far more pronounced in Uyten, who had earned it from his fondness for brawling.

Something was scratching at the back of Bartholomew’s mind, and he knew it was important. It was to do with Fulbut’s dying words, when the mercenary had talked in his distinctive brogue about the man who had hired him to shoot Felbrigge – someone who had had a ‘big year’. Understanding came in a flash. Fulbut had not been saying ‘big year’ but ‘pig ear’. He had been referring to Uyten!

Flushed with triumph, Bartholomew raced up the stairs to Michael’s room, only to be told that the monk was out on patrol with Meadowman. He left the College at a run. On the dark streets, beadles were out in force, along with noisy bands of matriculands and apprentices, although troops from the castle were conspicuous by their absence.

‘De Stannell has recalled them all,’ said Michael, tight-lipped with fury when the physician finally caught up with him. ‘He says the trouble is of our making, so we must resolve it ourselves.’

‘The apprentices are not ours. Nor is that horde from the King’s Head. But never mind them, Brother. I think I know the identity of the killer.’ Excitedly, Bartholomew told the monk what he had read in Lawrence’s scroll.

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Do you think Lawrence lent you that text with the specific intention of leading you astray – to shift blame away from himself?’

‘Of course not!’ Bartholomew was disappointed by the monk’s response. ‘He could not know I would read it today. Or at all, for that matter. It would be an extraordinarily elaborate ruse.’

‘But why would Uyten poison all these people?’

‘You know why! Felbrigge was telling you just before he was shot that he had put measures in place to control Winwick Hall. Obviously, Uyten does not want his College regulated by guildsmen. He killed Felbrigge first, then dispatched Hemmysby, Elvesmere, Ratclyf and Knyt to ensure that they could not put these safeguards into force either.’

‘But Elvesmere and Ratclyf were Winwick men. They were unlikely to support their College being manipulated by an external authority, and would have been in Uyten’s side.’

Bartholomew shrugged, unwilling to admit that Michael had a point. ‘Perhaps he felt they could not be trusted.’

‘And what about Oswald?’ pressed Michael. ‘I sincerely doubt he was interested in managing Winwick. He always kept out of University affairs, in deference to you.’

‘He founded the Guild to help the poor,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He would not have wanted its funds diverted to a wealthy College. And if Uyten did kill him, I want him brought to justice. For Edith’s sake.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Michael. ‘We shall tackle Uyten in the morning.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because Illesy has sent him to Ely for parchment, and he is not expected back until tomorrow. Bon told me when I asked why there was no student-guide to accompany him to the debate earlier. Do not worry, Matt. Uyten has no idea we suspect him, so he has no reason to flee.’

‘I imagine we will see him at midnight,’ said Bartholomew dourly. ‘At the Round Church, waiting for his fifty marks.’

‘Perhaps. But go home now, and try to sleep. One of us should be alert if we are to thwart blackmailers and killers later.’

Bartholomew started to walk to Michaelhouse, but happened to glance into the Cardinal’s Cap as he passed, and saw Rougham sitting inside with Meryfeld and two women. He entered the tavern, and joined their table uninvited.

‘Keep taking the tonic, mistress,’ said Rougham, blushing furiously because his companion was Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute. ‘Goodbye.’

‘And the same goes for you,’ said Meryfeld, shoving Yolande’s friend off his lap with such vigour that she stumbled. ‘And if you feel faint again, sniff the sal ammoniac I prescribed.’

She frowned her confusion. ‘But you gave us that for patrons who fall asleep in our beds after they have finished with us. We do not need it for ourselves.’

‘Come, sister,’ said Yolande, quicker on the uptake. ‘Let us leave these medical men to discuss dissection and anatomy. We have other fish to fry.’

‘Do not fry them too long,’ said Meryfeld, trying to wink meaningfully without Bartholomew seeing. ‘You may need to consult us again.’

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He had known for years that Rougham enjoyed a lively relationship with Yolande, and it came as no surprise that Meryfeld did likewise. ‘Your personal lives are none of my concern. I just wanted some company.’

‘Those were patients,’ said Rougham sternly. ‘You do not have a monopoly on paupers, you know. However, I am disturbed that they think we discuss dissection and anatomy when we are together. I have never talked about those in my life, except to condemn them.’

‘Nor have I,’ agreed Meryfeld in distaste. ‘They strike me as most unhygienic activities, as I cannot imagine that the inside of corpses are very clean.’

Bartholomew glanced at Meryfeld’s grimy paws, and thought a dissector could slice up a hundred corpses without his fingers being half as filthy.

‘Much can be learned from the art,’ he said, then wished he had held his tongue. He remained troubled by his examination of Hemmysby, and did not want to defend such procedures when he was not entirely sure they were ethical.

‘It would not result in anything I should want to know,’ declared Rougham. He leaned a little closer, and his voice turned gossipy. ‘Did Father William really pen those poisonous words about the Dominican Prior and Satan?’

‘William did not make them public,’ hedged Bartholomew. ‘And it is a foolish distraction when we should be concentrating on the murders of our friends and colleagues – Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Felbrigge, Oswald Stanmore–’

‘Stanmore was not murdered,’ declared Meryfeld, startled.

‘Of course not,’ agreed Rougham. ‘Although you are not in a position to say so, Meryfeld. I was the one who tended him on his deathbed.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Meryfeld. ‘Edith sent for you. However, she was not to know that he was actually my patient. I had been treating him while Bartholomew was in Peterborough.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Treating him for what? And why did you not tell me?’

‘Because I did not want to distress you.’ Meryfeld glanced at Rougham. ‘Or embarrass you by revealing that you had made a mistake. You see, Stanmore did not die of marsh fever.’

‘Yes, he did,’ countered Rougham crossly. ‘I suffer from it myself, and I know the signs.’

‘Signs that are also consistent with a failing heart,’ said Meryfeld. ‘Which is what killed him. He came to me three weeks before he died, and every day after that. He was worse each time.’

He then gave a detailed account of Stanmore’s case. The symptoms were unequivocal, and when he had finished, both Bartholomew and Rougham were forced to concede that his diagnosis was correct.

‘I have no cure for sicknesses of that magnitude,’ he concluded, uncharacteristically humble. ‘So I did not attempt one. I prescribed a little peppermint and valerian to calm him, but that was all.’

‘So why did Edith not tell me all this?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘I might have treated him differently had I been in full possession of the facts.’

‘She did not know,’ explained Meryfeld. ‘He did not want to spoil the little time they had left together, so I was sworn to secrecy. He would not even let me visit their home. He always came to my house instead. Indeed, I summoned him there the evening he died.’

‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, ‘when there was nothing you could do to help him?’

‘Because Lawrence happened to mention that some chest pains can be eased by a hot compress. I knew Stanmore would struggle to sit through a long Guild meeting comfortably, so I made him one, and sent a note inviting him to visit.’

‘In French?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the message that Edith had found.

‘Of course. I do not debase myself with the vernacular when dealing with wealthy clients. I cannot have them thinking me coarse. I used my best parchment and expensive purple ink. He said he felt a little better after I applied the compress, although the effects wore off all too quickly.’

‘He went straight to the guildhall when you had finished?’ asked Bartholomew.

Meryfeld nodded. ‘We walked there together. No one killed him, Bartholomew. He left Milne Street to come directly to me, and we were in each other’s company until I left him by the door of his house when the meeting was over. I would have stayed the night, as I could see the end was near and I wanted to be on hand to help, but he would not let me.’

‘Did he eat or drink anything in all that time?’

‘Nothing. He had no appetite.’

Relief surged through Bartholomew, and he gripped Meryfeld’s hand. ‘Thank you! Edith will be hurt that he did not confide in her, but it is better than thinking someone poisoned him.’

‘He might have lived longer had he not worked so hard when he should have been resting,’ said Meryfeld. ‘There were things he did not want her to discover, you see.’

‘What things?’ asked Rougham curiously.

‘He did not say, but I suspect they pertained to the way he ran his business. One night when he came to see me, there was a reek of burnt parchment on him, and I had the strong sense that he had been destroying records.’

Bartholomew left the Cardinal’s Cap and hurried to Milne Street. It was late, but he knew Edith would not mind. He told her everything he had learned, and then sat with her while she wept for the man she had loved, and the knowledge that he had tried so hard to spare her pain.