Death of a Scholar

Chapter 4

The wind picked up through the night, rattling the tiles on Michaelhouse’s roof and making mysterious clunking sounds that might have been nothing, but that equally well might have been something about to break. Bartholomew slept poorly, starting awake at every thump, and once, after an especially loud clatter, getting up to ensure that the roof was still attached.

‘You normally sleep through storms, sir,’ said Aungel the following morning. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, unwilling to reveal that his restlessness had been caused by the episode in Knyt’s house. He hated losing patients, even ones who were dead before he was called. Then he realised that Aungel was trying to make amends for his bad behaviour the previous day, and the curt answer had been churlish. He forced a smile. ‘It was just very noisy.’

‘It was,’ agreed Aungel. ‘The roof always knocks when the wind is from the east. It terrified me when I first came three years ago, but I have learned since that it is nothing to worry about.’

Bartholomew was far from sure about that. He took the lad to the storeroom, leaving the others to roll away mattresses, fold blankets and take dirty clothes to the laundry. He surveyed the mess wearily, then began to scrub the spilt substances off the workbenches while Aungel swept the floor. Anger gripped him again when he saw how free the experimenters had made with his supplies. His poppy juice was almost gone, and he wondered if Eyer would let him have more on credit until he earned some money. Or perhaps Edith would lend him a few pennies.

‘God’s teeth,’ he exclaimed, holding up a flask containing a fluid that was bright blue. When he swirled it, it adhered to the sides, and he was quite sure that if any spilled, it would stain whatever it touched permanently. ‘What is this?’

Aungel grimaced. ‘It was not that colour last night! Goodwyn will be disappointed – he wanted red, so he could daub rude messages about the townsfolk on the guildhall’s door.’

‘If he does, I shall expel him.’ Bartholomew looked at the mixture. ‘What is in it?’

‘I cannot remember. We filched wine from the kitchens, and added pinches of this and glugs of that. Goodwyn had some powders of his own, which he said he bought, but…’

‘But what?’ Bartholomew sensed he was about to be told something he would not like.

‘But he does not have much money now his fees are paid,’ confided Aungel unhappily. ‘And Brother Michael keeps fining him. I think he may have stolen them. I know he was in Apothecary Eyer’s shop with your nephew. He might have palmed a few things then, for mischief.’

‘Richard was his accomplice?’ Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Oh, no, sir! He was there to purchase a hangover remedy. I imagine Goodwyn pinched the stuff while Eyer was serving him.’

Bartholomew sniffed the blue mixture cautiously, and recoiled at its toxic stench. He wondered what to do with it. He could not pour it down the drain, lest it did something terrible to the river. Irritably, he shoved it on the top shelf behind the pennyroyal, thinking it would have to wait until he had time to dispose of it in the midden.

‘It was not my idea to conduct those tests,’ said Aungel sheepishly. ‘I said we should ask you first, and so did most of the others, but Goodwyn told us…’

‘If he suggests anything else, refuse. You are the senior student, not him.’

‘Yes, but he is older than me,’ said Aungel miserably. ‘He and the other new men did the trivium and most of the quadrivium at Oxford, which is why Master Langelee took them. He can charge advanced scholars higher fees, you see.’

‘If they are trouble, I shall send them down, along with anyone else who follows them into mischief,’ said Bartholomew warningly. ‘So do not let them lead you astray.’

Aungel nodded, but it was clear the task might be beyond him. ‘They are an evil influence. They met up with Mistress Stanmore’s apprentices last night and caused trouble in the Cardinal’s Cap. They escaped before the beadles arrived, but I heard them sniggering about it afterwards.’

‘Then tell Langelee. We do not want them bringing disgrace on the College.’

‘Very well. But if Goodwyn finds out that I am a sneak, and I am forced to flee in fear of my life, I shall want a refund on my fees.’

The wind was still strong when Michaelhouse’s scholars processed to church, but the gusts were moderating. It had blown leaves into rusty piles in the corners, while small twigs and bits of branch littered the streets. The students burst out laughing when Langelee, wrestling with the temperamental latch on the porch door, released a string of obscenities that would have made the most foul-mouthed of guttersnipes blush.

‘Thank God you are going to see the locksmith today,’ he muttered to Hemmysby, inspecting a torn fingernail. ‘We shall be pinched, sliced and maimed no more.’

‘I am afraid it will have to be tomorrow,’ said Hemmysby apologetically. ‘There was not enough time for everyone to speak at the debate yesterday, so the Chancellor suggested that we resume again this morning. I am called to clarify certain points from Ockham’s Opus nonaginta dierum – ancient tenets raised by the silly Bon from Winwick Hall.’

‘Tynkell really is inept,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘He failed to restrict the discussion to new arguments, so inexperienced debaters like the men from Winwick Hall dredged up lot of old material. And for the first time ever, the Cambridge Debate will span two days.’

‘It is partly your fault, too, Brother,’ said William. ‘You plan to ban apostolic poverty after Tuesday, so everyone is keen to have his say before the injunction comes into force. It is a poor decree. There is nothing wrong with a bit of theology.’

‘It is not a bit of theology,’ said Michael crossly. ‘It is heresy, and I have no wish to share Linton Hall’s fate. But I wish Tynkell had kept the debate on track. I do not have time to monitor it myself, what with catching killers and making arrangements for the ceremony next week.’

‘And looking for our hutch,’ added Langelee pointedly.

‘Moreover, my choir needs to rehearse the Conductus,’ Michael went on, ‘or they will disgrace themselves with their indifferent grasp of polyphony.’

‘They will disgrace themselves by opening their mouths,’ muttered Thelnetham. He spoke a little louder. ‘Do you have any of that remedy for biliousness, Bartholomew? The thought of those heathens performing has made me feel quite sick.’

‘It is all the poison inside you,’ declared William. ‘If you were a nicer man, you would not need a tonic. Biliousness is a sign of a disagreeable character.’

‘We did well at the debate yesterday,’ said Clippesby, speaking quickly to avert a spat. He had Ethel in his arms, and clearly intended to take her to the service. The hen’s leery expression suggested she was not entirely comfortable with the idea, but she made no attempt to flap away.

‘I did well,’ gloated Thelnetham. ‘Michael and Hemmysby were adequate.’

‘Hurry up with the door, Master,’ ordered William. ‘I want to return to the tract I am composing. I have some concluding remarks to make, and then it will be ready for your enjoyment and edification. You will learn a great deal from it, I promise.’

‘I am sure he will,’ said Thelnetham snidely. ‘Such as the fact that you have wasted a lot of perfectly good ink and parchment on your foolish ramblings.’

A row blossomed, but Bartholomew stopped listening when Goodwyn gave Aungel a shove that was vigorous enough to make the younger lad stagger. Both returned to their places when they saw they were being watched, but he suspected Goodwyn would not behave for long. Langelee had noticed, too, but was unsympathetic when Bartholomew put his case for expelling troublemakers.

‘Impossible! How will we refund their fees? And think yourself lucky. Yours at least look respectable – the ones enrolled with me have the appearance of escaped convicts.’

Goodwyn and his cronies, along with the ruffians from Langelee’s class, shuffled and snickered all through Mass, although they settled down at breakfast. Bartholomew poked dispiritedly at the pottage in his bowl. It comprised a watery broth flavoured with fish heads, accompanied by the kind of oat mash that was more usually fed to horses.

Afterwards, Cynric was waiting with a long list of patients, while the other Fellows – and Ethel – went to attend the rest of the debate. Before he left, Michael murmured that he would need Bartholomew’s help that afternoon, as they had to follow up on what Bon had told them the previous day – that Illesy had entertained Potmoor at Winwick Hall on the night that Elvesmere had been murdered.

‘And a gold candlestick has been stolen from Gonville,’ the monk added. ‘Rougham assures me that the culprit is Potmoor, so we had better interview him, too.’

‘Does Rougham have evidence for this accusation?’

‘If only! He bases it on the brag that Potmoor once made to his henchmen – that he commits burglary as a way of ensuring that he does not lose his felonious touch.’

‘Did Potmoor really say that, or has it been quoted out of context?’

‘Oh, he said it, and not in jest either. However, as I keep telling everyone, he is not the only burglar in the shire, and I shall continue to hound other suspects. Seven hostels, three Colleges and the Dominican Priory have been targeted now, while de Stannell says he has lost count of the number of thefts in the town. It is imperative that the culprit is caught before he beggars us all.’

‘What about Fulbut? You said you would arrest him yesterday, and persuade him to tell you who ordered the murder of your Junior Proctor. Did he identify the culprit?’

‘Unfortunately, he has disappeared and my beadles cannot find him.’ Michael sighed. ‘It is one step forward and two back with these cases. But do not be too long with your patients. We must make some headway today, or term will be on us and we shall expire from the pressure.’

Bartholomew began his rounds by visiting those patients who lived south of the College, walking carefully along a High Street that was littered with debris from the storm. There were a lot of smashed tiles on the ground outside Winwick Hall, but builders were already scrambling across the roof to replace them. Lawrence and Bon were watching, Lawrence describing what he could see to his colleague. Bartholomew went to exchange pleasantries with them.

‘No, we did not enjoy yesterday’s debate,’ snapped Bon, turning his milky eyes to the grand church next door, from which already came the sound of haranguing voices. ‘Michaelhouse savaged us cruelly, which was unkind, given that it was our first appearance.’

‘Your colleagues could have been gentler, Matthew,’ agreed Lawrence. ‘But Illesy and Nerli will salvage our reputation today, and the refreshments we shall provide afterwards will put us in everyone’s good graces. Ah, here comes Eyer with the poultice for your eyes, Bon.’

‘About time,’ muttered Bon savagely. ‘He is late again.’

‘I do not like to speak ill of a colleague,’ muttered Lawrence, as Bon stamped away on the apothecary’s arm, ‘but Bon really is a surly devil. He cannot open his mouth without saying something unpleasant, and living with him will be a sore trial, I fear.’

Bartholomew suspected he was right.

The physician arrived at the home of his first patient – a carpenter with a broken hand. Technically, this was Holm’s domain, but Bartholomew did not trust him, and regularly performed procedures that were traditionally the prerogative of surgeons. It was unorthodox, but he felt his patients deserved the best treatment available – which would not be forthcoming from an incompetent like Holm. He set the bones carefully, half listening as he was regaled with complaints about the number of matriculands who had arrived that year. The next two visits saw him bombarded with vitriol about the Guild of Saints, which had decreased the amount of charity it dispensed after Stanmore had died, and was expected to cut back even further now that Knyt was no longer in charge.

‘Father Heyford told us so in a sermon,’ confided a resentful rat-catcher. ‘The Guild used to support beggars and needy widows, but now it gives all its money to Winwick Hall.’

Bartholomew broke away from paupers to make a visit to King’s Hall, where a scholar named Geoffrey Dodenho, whose academic abilities were not as great as he thought they were, was suffering from a swollen knee. Dodenho had no complaints about the Guild of Saints or the number of matriculands, but he had a great deal to say about the unseemly speed with which Winwick Hall had come into being.

‘King’s Hall does not approve. It took us twenty years to go from a writ to a fully fledged College, but that place did it in a few days. It is not right, and there will be trouble.’

‘Probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Flex your knee now. Does that hurt?’

‘No. And all the while, the hostels laugh at us, because they think we are jealous. We are not: we are concerned. Did you know that John Winwick has not even sorted out its endowment yet, owing to some legal hiccup? Without it, his foundation is not really a College at all.’

‘I suppose not. What about this? Is that sore?’

‘No. Winwick Hall is beneath us in other ways, too. It does not have royal connections, like we do. Or the support of powerful churchmen, like Michaelhouse. It cannot even claim to have been founded by the town, like Bene’t. It is a cuckoo, and one established by a lawyer into the bargain.’

‘Stand up. Is there any pain when I push here?’

‘No. John Winwick might be Keeper of the Privy Seal, but he hails from common stock and his hall will attract common members. It is not to be borne.’ Dodenho jerked away suddenly. ‘God’s blood, Bartholomew! That hurt!’

One call took the physician to the sparsely populated area north of the river, once a thriving community but wiped out in a few days by the plague that had swept across the country a decade before. Again, there was talk about the increasing miserliness of the Guild of Saints. On his way back, he passed St Clement’s, where Heyford was sweeping his porch.

‘No, I am not well,’ the vicar snapped in reply to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘I have a headache. Someone sent me a jug of very powerful wine yesterday, and it made me sick.’

‘You made yourself sick,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘No one forced you to drink it.’

‘I was thirsty,’ said Heyford tetchily. ‘As the villain doubtless knew I would be after I had given that long sermon about the wickedness of the Cambridge Debate.’

‘Why do you consider it wicked? Because the subject is apostolic poverty?’

‘Do not be ridiculous! Apostolic poverty is an excellent topic for discussion. No, my objections stem from the fact that I was not invited.’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. ‘Why would you be? You are not a member of the University.’

‘Of course not – I would never deign to join such a vile institution. But I still have a right to speak, and I have views about the greedy excesses of monks. And speaking of greedy monks, what is Brother Michael doing to catch the arsonist who tried to incinerate me?’

‘I thought it was an accident. A candle falling over while you were dr– while you slept.’

‘That is what everyone was meant to think, but the villain set light to my altar deliberately. He sent me that strong wine, too, to ensure that I would die in the resulting inferno. And why? Because I am honest and say what I think. Someone probably took offence at something I preached – a scholar from that diabolical Winwick Hall, perhaps. Or Potmoor.’

Bartholomew did not grace the claim with a response, but it did not matter, because the vicar’s attention had already turned to something else that was not to his liking: a party of young men. All were older than the lads who usually applied to study at the University, and Bartholomew did not like the fact that they were armed with swords.

‘They are here for Winwick Hall,’ Heyford said darkly. ‘But if they are rejected – and not even that bloated abomination can accept them all – they will find themselves a master and establish a hostel. We shall be knee-deep in lawyers, and our poor town will be like a foretaste of Hell!’

Bartholomew’s next port of call was a woman who lived next to St Clement’s. Ylaria Verius had been his patient for years, and was currently suffering from a persistent cough. Her husband – whom Bartholomew had met just before the fire the previous day – was a ditcher, but as he was too lazy to work he often supplemented his income with petty theft. Their meagre shack was gloomy, damp and cold, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Ylaria’s health improved slowly.

‘Your sister’s apprentices caused a terrible rumpus in the Cardinal’s Cap last night,’ said Ylaria, when the examination was over and they were waiting for water to boil for a soothing syrup. Normally, Bartholomew would have sent Verius with a note asking Eyer to prepare what was needed, but such luxury was impossible now he had no stipend.

‘I heard,’ said Bartholomew, not liking to admit what Aungel had claimed: that the new medical students had joined them there. ‘I will speak to her.’

‘Do not bother her with it,’ said Ylaria. ‘Corner your nephew instead. Tell him, Noll.’

‘Yes, tackle Richard,’ nodded Verius. ‘He was the one who led them inside.’

Bartholomew was annoyed. Townsfolk never visited that particular establishment, as it was the acknowledged domain of scholars – although taverns were off limits to academics, the Cap was a discreet exception, as it was frequented by sober clerics who never caused trouble. Richard should have known better than to take apprentices there.

‘Some friars asked them to leave,’ Verius went on, ‘but Richard refused. Insults were traded and there was a brawl, although your nephew did not join in.’ The ditcher was clearly disdainful of such unmanly behaviour.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘No, although Richard did his best to goad it into something worse. I know, because I was watching from the Angel Inn opposite. That Richard is an odious ba–’

‘Easy, Noll,’ interrupted Ylaria hastily. ‘Doctor Bartholomew may like him.’

‘I doubt it,’ averred Verius. ‘No one could be fond of a sly dog like him. He–’

‘There is a lot bad feeling towards the University at the moment, Doctor,’ said Ylaria quickly, cutting her husband off a second time. ‘Mostly because we dislike all these new students invading our town. There are far more of them than usual.’

‘Winwick Hall,’ spat Verius. ‘The showy place on the High Street – that is what is attracting all these pompous louts. I wish the Guild of Saints would not give it so much money.’

‘Money that should go to the poor,’ agreed Ylaria. ‘The Guild is not what it was when your brother-in-law was in charge, Doctor. There still are some nice people in it, but most are villains – such as the Fellows of Winwick, Deputy de Stannell and Potmoor.’

‘Potmoor is all right,’ objected Verius. ‘Nicer than the scholars.’

‘Rubbish – he is a rogue!’ Ylaria turned back to Bartholomew. ‘I am none too fond of that Julitta Holm either. I am sorry to say it, as I know you and her are close, but she used to be such a kind lady. Now she never gives money to the poor and–’

‘There is a rehearsal for the Michaelhouse Choir tonight,’ interrupted Verius, bored with the tirade. ‘I am a member, as you know, and Brother Michael has promised to execute a conductor for us. I am not sure who he plans to kill, but it will be interesting to see.’

‘It means he has written some music for you to sing,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘A processional piece, called a Conductus.’

‘Oh,’ said Verius, disappointed. ‘Well, no matter. I shall probably enjoy myself anyway. Ylaria says I have the voice of an angel, and Brother Michael has pledged me a solo part.’

Bartholomew did not like to imagine what manner of sound the gruff Verius would produce. He took his leave and walked towards the Jewry, but had not gone far before he met Edith and Richard. They were walking stiffly side by side, and he was sorry they no longer linked arms as they would once have done. Edith looked worn and haggard.

‘Matt,’ she said with a strained smile. ‘I have been looking for you.’

Bartholomew glanced at his nephew. ‘Because of the Cardinal’s Cap?’

‘No,’ said Richard quickly, and promptly went on a spiteful offensive of his own, to ensure events in that particular tavern were not discussed in front of his mother. ‘Have you seen Julitta Holm this morning? She has unveiled a plan to withdraw free bread for paupers, and some of the prostitutes have asked me to speak to her about it. She is your lover, so I thought you…’

He pretended to trail off guiltily, but his ploy to expose Bartholomew’s peccadillos failed. Edith knew all about her brother’s affection for Julitta, and considered it none of her business. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and she homed in on what Richard had said.

‘I sincerely hope you have not used prostitutes while living under my roof.’

‘Of course not,’ said Richard, although he had the grace to blush. He changed the subject in a transparent attempt to avoid a lecture. ‘Did I tell you that I plan to apply for a Fellowship at Winwick Hall? Provost Illesy said he would put in a word for me with the College’s founder.’

‘You want to be a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

Richard shrugged. ‘Such a life has much to commend it – long holidays, not much to do during the day, sumptuous feasts in the evenings.’

Bartholomew laughed.

‘I was sorry to hear about Knyt,’ said Edith. She stood a little taller and looked her brother straight in the eye. ‘He was a decent man, and I shall miss him.’

Bartholomew regarded her warily. He knew that particular posture. It meant she was leading up to something – a something that would almost certainly horrify or disconcert him.

‘His wife is not decent, though,’ gossiped Richard meanly. ‘I was just telling Mother – I happened to be walking past their house yesterday morning, and I saw Potmoor sneaking out through the back door. He should not have been visiting Olivia when Knyt was out.’

‘How do you know Knyt was out?’ asked Bartholomew.

It was Edith who replied. ‘Because Knyt was with me when Richard was on the Chesterton road. We were discussing the number of blankets we shall need for the poor this winter.’

‘Was his house burgled yesterday?’ Bartholomew felt a surge of hope. Perhaps this would allow Michael to arrest Potmoor and charge him with the thefts. A search of his home might even reveal the Stanton Hutch, and Michaelhouse’s problems would be over.

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Edith briskly. ‘But its owner died a few hours later. That is what I wanted to discuss with you.’ She glanced at Richard. ‘With both of you.’

Richard frowned uneasily. ‘I am not sure I follow. Are you suggesting that Potmoor had something to do with Knyt’s death?’

‘Yes,’ replied Edith with total conviction. ‘And it is not the first time he has killed either.’

‘No,’ agreed Richard wryly. ‘The taverns are full of tales about his many victims – some slaughtered by his own hand, and others by that army of henchmen he has recruited. Of course, not everyone believes he is such an outright villain. Provost Illesy says–’

‘Everyone thinks that Oswald died of marsh fever,’ interrupted Edith. ‘But I have never been happy with that explanation, as you know. I have thought of little else these last few weeks, and Knyt’s sudden and unexpected death has given me the answers I have been looking for. He was poisoned. And so was Oswald.’

Bartholomew blinked. This was a wild conclusion, even for a woman desperate to understand why a much-loved spouse had been snatched away with so little warning. ‘I hardly think–’

‘By Potmoor,’ finished Edith. ‘He is a wicked slayer of innocent men, and I mean to bring him to justice. And I want your help.’