Death of a Scholar

Chapter 7

It was a dismal night for Bartholomew. He carried Hemmysby into the church, while Michael fetched the other Fellows. All watched in shocked silence while he inspected the body just carefully enough to say that the priest had not been shot, stabbed or battered. He would conduct a more thorough examination the following morning, when he could see what he was doing.

As a mark of respect, they decided to keep vigil for the rest of the night. Bartholomew took the first shift, standing over his dead colleague until Langelee relieved him at midnight. He returned to Michaelhouse and fell into an exhausted drowse, but woke two hours later and could not go back to sleep, so when a summons came to tend a case of fever, he was relieved to turn out. Medical matters kept him busy until six o’clock, after which he went to visit Edith, because he saw a light burning in her solar.

Sleep had eluded her, too, and he spent an hour listening to her repeat her conviction that Potmoor had murdered Oswald. Prudently, he did not add fuel to the fire by saying that Marjory Starre and Agatha thought she might be right. She had also discovered two more documents proving that Oswald had overcharged trusting customers, although Richard had declared they did no such thing, and they had quarrelled about it.

‘Where is he?’ Bartholomew asked, coming angrily to his feet. ‘Upstairs in bed?’

Edith rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not. He is out with his friends, as usual.’

Richard was still out when Bartholomew left. The physician walked slowly through the lightening streets, and arrived at the church just in time for morning prayers. Although Hemmysby was invisible to view – Langelee had moved him to the Stanton Chapel, the small chamber next to the high altar – everyone was acutely aware of his presence. The students cast frequent glances at the chapel door, and some of the younger ones had clearly been crying.

‘Langelee found the Stanton Cup in Hemmysby’s room yesterday,’ Bartholomew heard Goodwyn whisper to Aungel. ‘He was a thief, so do not mourn him. And he is not the only Fellow with an unsavoury reputation: our own tutor raises criminals from the dead and consults with the Devil on his more difficult cases, while Brother Michael arranged for his deputy to be shot.’

‘Then you should watch I do not “arrange” for the same thing to happen to you,’ said Michael, making Goodwyn jump in alarm by speaking in his ear. ‘But this time I shall settle for threepence, which is the price of brawling in the Griffin last night.’

‘It was not my fault!’ Goodwyn pointed accusingly at Bartholomew. ‘It was his nephew who took us there. And poor Uyten from Winwick Hall lost three teeth in that skirmish.’

‘Then my fine will remind you not to be so foolishly gullible again,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘And later, you can help Agatha wash the jugs we used at choir practice last night.’

‘Clean up after peasants?’ But Goodwyn reached for his purse when a steely expression suffused the monk’s face. However, it did not stop him from muttering, ‘It was choir practice that sent us in search of strong drink in the first place. That rendition of Wycombe’s Alleluia…’

‘I assume you were going to furnish us with a compliment,’ said the monk tightly. ‘If not, you will pay two shillings for gross impudence.’

‘You cannot…’ began Goodwyn, then forced a smile. ‘Your choir is unique, Brother, and I can honestly say that I have never heard anything like it. I cannot wait for the next rehearsal.’

‘I must browse the statutes for a way to eject him,’ said Michael through gritted teeth as Goodwyn slunk away. ‘I do not want him in Michaelhouse.’

Nor did Bartholomew. He joined the procession to return to the College for breakfast, but Langelee had other ideas.

‘Inspect Hemmysby properly, then come back and tell me what you find,’ he instructed. ‘I imagine he took his own life. He must have felt guilty about stealing the hutch, so he left the deeds and the cup where he knew they would be found, and took the easy way out.’

Bartholomew disagreed. ‘Why would he commit suicide outside a church? Moreover, he was at the debate all day yesterday. People do not attend those sorts of events and then kill themselves.’

‘I might, if I had been obliged to listen to that claptrap for so many hours,’ said Langelee. ‘But his death is a bitter blow on two counts. First, because now we cannot ask him to give us back our money. And second, because he was a good teacher, who will be difficult to replace.’

Bartholomew waited for everyone except Michael to leave, and locked the door behind them. He did not do anything overtly gruesome when inspecting corpses, but Goodwyn’s remark made him wary of exacerbating the tales of his association with the Devil.

‘Ignore him,’ said Michael, guessing the reason for his caution. ‘He has a poisonous tongue, as evidenced by his gossip about me.’

‘Edith heard that particular rumour, too.’

Michael waved dismissively. ‘I can think of far more creative ways of dealing with upstart minions than hiring archers to shoot them, and anyone who matters knows it. Still, it is galling to think that I am the subject of tittle-tattle by the likes of Goodwyn.’

‘Have your beadles found Fulbut yet?’

‘No, and I am beginning to suspect that whoever employed him has taken steps to ensure that he will never spill his secrets.’

‘You mean he might be murdered himself?’

Michael nodded. ‘There must be some reason why he has disappeared so completely.’

‘Do you think de Stannell is right to accuse him of setting light to St Clement’s? After all, I saw him skulking near the back of it shortly afterwards, and its vicar freely admits to giving a damning sermon with thinly disguised references to Potmoor’s “resurrection”.’

‘It is possible – Heyford is his own worst enemy with his nasty orations. But you had better make a start. We cannot stay locked in here too long, or people will wonder what you are doing.’

Bartholomew made no move to oblige. ‘These rumours about the Devil and necromancy would not be so galling if I had not tried so hard to conform – keeping my opinions to myself, never discussing the teachings of my Arab master, bowing to traditionalism at every turn…’

‘Then just imagine what folk would be saying if you had not taken steps to toe the line. Be thankful for small mercies. Now are you going to begin or not?’

Bartholomew was thorough, but there was no sign of violence, self-inflicted or otherwise, and everything indicated that Hemmysby had just fallen over dead in the churchyard.

‘He must have been taken ill after the debate,’ he said eventually. ‘And came here as the nearest refuge, but the sticky latch defeated him and he died outside.’

‘Died of what?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Some failure of the vital organs, I suppose. Heart, brain or liver.’

‘Natural causes?’ asked Michael sceptically. ‘That is very convenient, given what we found in his room. Are you sure he has not been poisoned?’

‘No. Some toxic substances leave obvious marks – discoloration, rashes, swelling and so forth – but many are untraceable.’ Bartholomew leaned against the wall. ‘I witnessed a dissection at Salerno once, where poisoning was suspected. There were no external signs, but the anatomist discovered plenty internally. His diligence allowed a killer to be brought to justice.’

‘How did he do it? By slitting the victim open from chin to toes?’

‘Hardly! He made an incision in the neck, and the lesions were immediately apparent. He could have stopped there, but he removed the stomach, liver and intestines as well, to show us that damage had occurred in those, too.’

Michael was silent for a long time, staring down at their dead colleague. ‘I do not believe Hemmysby died naturally,’ he said at last. ‘And I do not believe he stole the Stanton Hutch either. I think someone is trying to lead us astray.’

‘What are you saying? That he was poisoned? Murdered?’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Yes, because we also have two other untimely “natural” deaths – Knyt and Oswald Stanmore. Like Hemmysby, both were guildsmen.’

‘Rougham said Oswald died of marsh fever…’

‘But Rougham is not a good medicus, and you do not trust his opinion,’ finished Michael.

‘I will quiz him about it today. Again.’

‘Do. Meanwhile, I dislike the notion that someone might be using Hemmysby to mislead us, and I will not let him be buried amid rumours of dishonesty and suicide. I want his name cleared.’

‘So do I, but how will you go about it?’

Michael looked up at him very slowly, and the physician was disconcerted by the haunted expression in his eyes. ‘By asking you to look inside him.’

Bartholomew’s jaw dropped. ‘You want me to dissect Hemmysby?’

‘Not dissect,’ corrected Michael, distaste clear in his face. ‘Just make a small incision to look for these telltale lesions. I do not expect you to … pull anything out.’

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘But you have always said you would never permit such a procedure, yet here you are encouraging me to do it on a friend. In a church!’

Michael winced. ‘If there was another way, I would take it, believe me. But I can think of none, and I will not see Hemmysby in a suicide’s grave – which is where he will go unless we prove his innocence. Thelnetham will see to that.’

‘He will. But I cannot do what you ask, Brother. Hemmysby would not have liked it.’

‘I disagree. He said not two days ago that he approved of anatomical studies, and I am sure he would rather suffer a little judicial slicing than lie in unconsecrated ground for eternity.’

‘Looking inside him might – might – disclose whether he swallowed poison, but not whether he did it himself or was given it by someone else. Thus a dissection will not provide you with the answers you want, and nor will it save Hemmysby from an anonymous hole outside the town gates.’

‘Perhaps,’ conceded Michael. ‘But it would give us a place to start.’

Bartholomew was surprised by the depth of his disinclination to do what Michael asked, especially as he had always championed dissection as an enlightened way to learn more about the mysteries of the human body. He shook his head. ‘I will not do it, Brother. Not on Hemmysby.’

Michael made an irritated sound at the back of his throat. ‘Why not? You have been itching to try it for years, but the moment I give you my blessing, you baulk. Where lies the problem?’

Bartholomew did not want to admit the truth, which was that he was sometimes assailed with the uncomfortable sense that God did not approve of what he did to the dead in the name of justice, and that weighing in with knives and forceps was likely to make the feeling a lot worse. He hedged.

‘I have no training in the art. Watching once or twice is not the same as being taught how to do it properly. I am not qualified.’

‘It cannot be that different from all the illicit surgery you conduct. Indeed, I imagine it will be a sight easier, as Hemmysby is unlikely to move.’

‘But he was a friend, Brother,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘It would not be right.’

‘What is not right is failing to do all in our power to clear his name and ensure he lies in the grave he deserves. I am not happy with desecration either, but I am prepared to set aside my aversion for the sake of justice. And if you care anything for Hemmysby, you will agree.’

Bartholomew was acutely unhappy. ‘There must be a better way…’

‘If there is, then I am all ears. If not, please make a start. I shall stand guard outside – we cannot have anyone walking in on you, and it will relieve me of the obligation to watch.’

When Michael had gone, Bartholomew stood motionless, looking at the body that lay before him as he tried to make sense of the whirlwind of conflicting emotions that raged within him. He had thought for years that dissection was the only way to establish accurate causes of death, but now he had permission to put his beliefs into practice, he was nervous, hesitant and afraid.

Yet at the same time, Michael was right: Hemmysby deserved to be exonerated, and an internal examination would provide a place to start. Heart thumping, he took a scalpel and made an incision. It was easier than he had anticipated, and once it was done, the intellectual part of his mind took over. He was able to disregard the fact that he was looking inside a friend, and concentrate on what he had learned at Salerno. It did not take him long to do what was necessary or to stitch up the holes he had made.

When all was done, and Hemmysby was lying decently in a clean robe, Bartholomew washed his hands in a jug of water and went outside. He found Michael looking pale and furtive.

‘I do not want to hear anything other than what you found,’ said the monk in a low voice. ‘I have been praying, to ask if what we are doing is right, but the only reply has been a resounding silence. I almost ran back inside to stop you, but the thought of Hemmysby’s eternal repose kept me rooted here among these graves.’

Bartholomew slumped down next to him, oddly exhausted now the deed was done. ‘He was poisoned. The signs are identical to those I saw in Salerno. The toxin then was a substance called dormirella, from the Latin for sleep, and I suspect the same one was used here. It contains many potent ingredients, including realgar, dwale and hemlock, which are deadly, as you know.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘I know no such thing! And what are dwale and realgar? I have never heard of them.’

‘Dwale is belladonna, and realgar is a reddish mineral used for dyeing cloth, tanning leather–’

‘Enough! I do not need an alchemy lesson.’ Michael swallowed hard. ‘I do not know whether to be smug that I was right or appalled that something so terrible has happened. Did he suffer?’

‘I imagine he just felt increasingly sluggish until he was overwhelmed with the need to sleep – hence the name dormirella. He may have been a little dizzy or feverish, and there may have been a slight burning in the throat, but this is a toxin that kills its victims quietly and without a fuss.’

‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Michael crossed himself. ‘How long does it take to work?’

‘It depends on the dose, which I have no way of determining.’

‘And there is nothing to say whether he swallowed it accidentally or otherwise?’

‘The contents of his stomach suggest it was probably in some cake. Thus it was unlikely to have been suicide – he would have swallowed it straight from the bottle if it had been self-murder.’

‘Cake?’ cried Michael, shocked all over again. ‘What kind of cake?’

‘One with dried fruit in it, although I cannot be more specific, I am afraid. I suppose I could take a sample to–’

‘No!’ Michael raised a hand to stop him. ‘I am sure we can manage without molesting him further. However, we can certainly dismiss accidental poisoning. Such a substance is unlikely to fall into food by mistake, which means it was put there deliberately.’

‘Yes, probably. So he was murdered, which means he can go in the churchyard. At least we have done that much for him.’

Michael closed his eyes, trying to push his continuing disquiet to the back of his mind. ‘So who wants Hemmysby blamed for stealing the Stanton Hutch, and dead so he cannot deny it? Someone from Michaelhouse? His students liked him, but he earned the displeasure of others for backing Thelnetham in his feud with William. And our College is currently full of strangers…’

‘I hope you are wrong.’ Bartholomew hated the notion of a killer in their home.

‘We need to locate the generous soul who gave him cake. There was none in his room – I would have noticed – so he must have eaten it at the post-debate refreshments.’ He regarded the physician in sudden alarm. ‘Lord! I hope there are no more victims among our theologians.’

‘If so, you would have heard about them by now.’

‘True. Now what about Knyt? I doubt Rougham, Meryfeld and Lawrence are capable of telling the difference between a natural attack and the insidious effects of this sly toxin.’

That had already occurred to Bartholomew, along with the fact that Potmoor had been in the Knyt house shortly before its owner had died – and Potmoor was the man whom Edith suspected of poisoning her husband. He shrugged at Michael’s question.

‘It is impossible to know without looking inside him.’

Michael grimaced. ‘It is one thing anatomising Hemmysby, safe in the knowledge that no one will ever find out, but another altogether to do it to a wealthy merchant. It would be discovered, and you would be denounced as a warlock.’

‘Then how will we learn the truth?’

Michael spread his hands. ‘Simple – you listed the symptoms that Hemmysby would have suffered as the potion worked. If our other victims were similarly affected, then we can infer that they were fed dormirella, too. It should not be difficult. Knyt had a wife, servants and medici who watched him in his final hours, while Oswald had Edith, Agatha and Rougham.’

‘Perhaps we should include Elvesmere in our enquiries, too. The wound in his back was not instantly fatal, as I said, and his death has puzzled me from the start. He was also a guildsman, like Oswald, Knyt and Hemmysby.’

‘You mean he was knifed, but when that did not kill him, he was made to drink poison?’

‘Or he drank poison, but it took too long to work, so his killer stabbed him. So how shall we go about unravelling this muddle? By asking Rougham to describe Oswald’s death?’

Michael patted his arm. ‘I understand his fate is the most important to you. However, I suggest we start with Hemmysby, by finding witnesses who saw him at the debate. Next we shall see what we can learn about Knyt’s last hours. And if we run into Rougham, we shall see what he can tell us about Oswald.’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘This is the point where I usually tell you that I am too busy with patients and teaching. But Oswald and Hemmysby deserve the truth.’

‘So do Knyt and Elvesmere,’ said Michael soberly.

Before they began their enquiries, they were obliged to report their findings to Langelee. The Master was no stranger to violent death, and Bartholomew knew for a fact that he had been responsible for more than a few himself while in the employ of the Archbishop of York, but he still paled when he heard what they had discovered.

‘How do you know it was dormirella?’ The way the name tripped off his tongue suggested he was more familiar with it than was appropriate for the head of a Cambridge College. ‘I thought that was undetectable.’

‘Not to a physician,’ replied Michael smoothly.

‘Nonsense. It leaves no visible marks … Oh, God! Bartholomew looked inside him! I knew it was only a matter of time before his ghoulish curiosity would get the better of him.’

‘We needed the truth,’ said Michael defensively.

‘But how will you reply when people ask how you have managed to detect the undetectable?’ Langelee sounded appalled and angry in equal measure. ‘I absolutely forbid you to tell the truth. You will have to lie. Say it was narcissus poisoning, which leaves a rash.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘How do you know?’

Langelee ignored the question. ‘If word gets out that you anatomised a corpse, we shall all be decried as sorcerers. Damn it, Bartholomew! Why could you not restrain yourself?’

‘It was under my orders,’ said Michael curtly. ‘And we had no choice. If we had done nothing, Hemmysby would be buried under a cloud of suspicion, and the killer would be laughing at us. Do you want that?’

‘No, of course not.’ Langelee fought down his exasperation and became practical. ‘You must find the villain as soon as possible. It will be catastrophic if our students decide they do not feel safe here and demand their fees back. You are both excused College duties until the matter is resolved. However, I can only grant you this freedom until the beginning of term.’

‘Next Tuesday,’ mused Michael. ‘Five days. Let us hope that is enough.’

The first place Michael and Bartholomew went after leaving College was St Mary the Great, to ask Chancellor Tynkell whether he had noticed Hemmysby at the debate. It took longer than usual to reach the church because they kept meeting people they knew – Eyer and Meryfeld, Warden Shropham of King’s Hall, and Weasenham, the University Stationer. Bartholomew, uncomfortable, after Langelee’s reaction, with what he had done to Hemmysby, could not meet their eyes, and mumbled shifty responses to their friendly hails.

‘Would you like a banner saying you have done something untoward?’ asked Michael. ‘Even that would be more discreet than this abjectly guilty behaviour.’

‘I should not have done it,’ said Bartholomew wretchedly. ‘Perhaps there are good reasons why the Church frowns on the practice. It felt wrong – like sacrilege.’

‘Rank superstition! God gave you your skills for a reason, and He would be disappointed if you were prepared to let a killer go free, just for the want of a few judicious slits.’

Bartholomew might have been comforted had he thought the monk believed what he said, but he could tell the words were empty – Michael was also wrestling with his conscience over the matter. However, all thoughts of dissection flew from his head when he saw Edith, who was looking pale, tired and older than her years.

‘Is it Richard again?’ he asked, concerned.

She rolled her eyes. ‘He took the chest containing Oswald’s personal documents, the one I found half-burned in the garden, although no one seems to know how it came to be there – and hid it, so I had to order him to give it back. He refused, and we both said things we shall probably regret. In the end, he all but hurled it at me before storming out.’

‘Why does he want to keep it from you?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew clenched his fists at his sides, a wave of anger washing through him at his nephew’s boorish behaviour.

‘Because he thinks we should respect Oswald’s privacy. But I have uncovered several unpaid bills, and another instance where a customer was overcharged. It is incumbent on me, as Oswald’s heir, to make good on these … oversights.’

Bartholomew glanced at her ashen face, and knew she was beginning to understand more than was comfortable about the way her husband had run his business. Richard, of course, would prefer to remain in blissful ignorance, taking the lawyerly view that he could not amend what he did not know was wrong. Both scholars set about trying to raise her spirits, but although she was slightly more cheerful when they parted ways, Bartholomew suspected it would not be long before she was cast down again, if not by reading Oswald’s documents, then by Richard’s shabby antics.

He and Michael were just passing St Michael’s Church when they met Julitta. Surgeon Holm was not with her for once, and she looked especially pretty in a green kirtle with gold embroidery. Bartholomew’s heart swelled with affection for her, which went some way to easing the ache caused by Edith’s unhappiness, his concern for his wayward nephew, and his continuing unease over Hemmysby.

‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints,’ said Michael, after they had exchanged warm greetings – very warm on Bartholomew’s part. ‘What can you tell us about Felbrigge?’

‘Your Junior Proctor?’ asked Julitta, startled by the question out of the blue. ‘I barely knew him, Brother. He tended to spurn anyone he thought would not be useful to him.’

‘He did not think your friendship was worth cultivating?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘But you are wealthy, and therefore have a voice in Guild politics.’

‘Not as loud a voice as people like Mayor Heslarton, Mistress Mortimer, John and Hugo Potmoor, the Frevill clan, and the Fellows of Winwick,’ replied Julitta. ‘And Knyt, Hemmysby and Oswald Stanmore when they were still alive.’

‘When they were still alive,’ echoed Michael. ‘But they are dead, along with Elvesmere and Felbrigge himself. That makes five guildsmen gone within a few weeks of each other. Have there been any rumours about that? Any hint that something odd is unfolding?’

Julitta regarded him in astonishment. ‘Surely you do not think there is a connection? How could there be, when three died of natural causes, one was shot, and the other was stabbed?’

‘We know Felbrigge was unpopular,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to burden her with their suspicions. ‘But what about the others?’

‘Knyt was loved by everyone, while Stanmore was a hero among the poor for his unstinting munificence. Elvesmere was also quietly generous, as was poor Hemmysby.’

‘I was sorry to learn you were burgled,’ said Michael, launching into another subject. ‘Your husband complained bitterly to me about it yesterday.’

Julitta sighed. ‘Poor Will. He has never been the victim of a crime before, and it unsettled him badly. The culprit made a terrible mess in his workshop.’

‘Workshop?’ asked Michael uncertainly. ‘Why would a surgeon have one of those?’

‘He performs very little cautery these days, and spends most of his time making medicines.’ Julitta smiled indulgently. ‘His pill for gout is almost ready, although his paste for whitening teeth suffered a serious setback when the thief stole some of his key ingredients.’

Bartholomew regarded her uneasily. ‘Not a substance called dormirella? It cannot be used for whitening teeth – at least, not sensibly – but Holm might have had it for another purpose.’

‘He does use dormirella in his tooth-paste,’ said Julitta, a little coolly. ‘It is perfectly safe if you know what you are doing, and Will has a rare talent with such matters.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘So did the thief steal some from him?’

‘I believe so.’ She started to add more, stopped, then spoke in a gabble. ‘Signor Nerli. I was walking past Winwick Hall the other day, and I saw him practising his swordplay with Potmoor in the yard. He was far more competent than is respectable for a scholar, and he may well have other sinister talents – like a familiarity with compounds that have Italian-sounding names.’

‘He might,’ agreed Michael. ‘And I had better find out just how friendly he is with Potmoor.’

The expression on Julitta’s face remained troubled. ‘Nerli is not the only Winwick scholar who worries me. I like Master Lawrence very much, but Will tells me that he killed Queen Isabella with incompetence – that he did not retire to dedicate the rest of his life to teaching, but because he was ousted from his post by the King.’

‘Typical Oxford man,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am not surprised that Lawrence–’

‘Spiteful gossip,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘You should not believe it.’

Julitta nodded, although doubt remained in her eyes. ‘Speaking of Will, you had better not come for our usual evening tomorrow, Matt. He cannot visit Knyt, as he usually does on Fridays, so he has offered to sing to me instead. I have not yet heard his voice, given that he has suffered so many sore throats since our wedding day, but I am sure it will be beautiful.’

The surgeon was marginally less easy on the ears than a braying donkey, and it was testament to his skills as a liar that he had managed to conceal it from his wife for so many months. Bartholomew had no doubt whatsoever that an excuse would be invented for the following evening, thus allowing Holm to escape with his musical reputation intact. The man was nothing if not resourceful, and Bartholomew thought Julitta a fool for swallowing so many of his falsehoods.

‘Perhaps he should audition for the Michaelhouse Choir,’ he said, uncharacteristically acidic because he resented losing what was the highlight of his week.

‘I do not need more members, thank you,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘It is already bigger than ever before, and I shall struggle to conduct it if it grows any further.’

‘Gracious,’ said Julitta, wide-eyed. ‘I must remember to stand well back when they perform at the beginning of term ceremony. So as to appreciate the quality of their performance,’ she added quickly when Michael’s eyes narrowed.

They made their farewells, and the scholars resumed their walk to St Mary the Great. Bartholomew was thoughtful, mulling over the possibility that Holm’s dormirella had killed Hemmysby, along with the fact that so many members of the Guild of Saints were dead. He also pondered Nerli, a man with odd skills for a scholar, whose qualifications Elvesmere had questioned. Had he fabricated them, or did the University at Salerno really award Masters of Civil Law?

‘You play with fire, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘Enjoying brazen assignations with another man’s wife. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, or you might have found yourself fined for inappropriate relationships. Women are forbidden to scholars, you know.’

‘We meet to practise her reading.’

‘You can call it what you like,’ said Michael. ‘But I have seen the way you look at each other. However, you should watch yourself, given that her husband has access to poisons. If he sends you a cake, try it out on Goodwyn before eating any yourself.’

‘I was thinking much the same. Not about experimenting on Goodwyn, but that Holm might be responsible for killing Hemmysby. They were both guildsmen, and now we learn that he has a supply of dormirella.’

‘You want him to be guilty because you love Julitta.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew stiffly. ‘He was probably never burgled at all, and invented the tale to explain why some of his supply is missing. Doubtless, he is afraid that you will ask everyone to account for any dormirella they have bought in the past.’

‘You had better hope not,’ said Michael drily. ‘Because if so, it means he predicted that we would learn Hemmysby was poisoned, and as dormirella is supposed to be undetectable, he will know what we did for answers.’

Bartholomew gaped at him in horror. ‘He will accuse me of defiling Hemmysby, and one look at the corpse will prove him right! No one will care that he stands accused of murder, because what I did will be considered worse.’

‘Then I suggest we visit Eyer, and find out who has bought dormirella recently. If Holm is the only one, we shall arrest him before he can blare any nasty allegations. However, while I understand him wanting you dead, I do not see why he should have taken against our other victims. What would his motive be?’

‘To win a louder voice in the Guild of Saints? They deal with enormous sums of money, and he probably hankers after the power such influence will give him.’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Holm does not care about the kind of “power” that accrues from giving money to worthy causes. Love is playing havoc with your reason, my friend! What will Matilde say when she returns to find that your heart belongs to another man’s wife?’

‘She may never come,’ said Bartholomew shortly, disliking the reminder of his confused feelings. ‘And even if she does, I am not sure we could be happy together.’

The Chancellor had an office in St Mary the Great, although it was smaller and less well appointed than his Senior Proctor’s. He was busy when they arrived, almost buried under a mound of parchment. Students in holy orders needed dispensations from their priories, abbeys or convents before they could enrol at the University, while others needed licences from bishops. All had to be checked and acknowledged, and it was tedious work. Michael had long since delegated the task to Tynkell on the grounds that he himself had more interesting matters to attend.

Tynkell was sitting back massaging his neck when the monk walked in. He had an unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene, which meant his company was often disagreeable. There was something peculiar about his physiognomy, too, and Michaelhouse’s students had once started a rumour that he was pregnant. Bartholomew knew what made the Chancellor different, but steadfastly refused to tell.

‘Poor Hemmysby,’ Tynkell sighed, when asked what he remembered about the debate. ‘He argued with great eloquence that the property and jurisdiction of friars are free gifts from God, and was so persuasive that even the monastics applauded his thesis. It is a great pity that he died before he could bask in his success.’

‘Did his opinions offend anyone?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Not his opinions, but he was ruthless with those whose minds are less incisive than his own. A number of inexperienced, inept or careless speakers fell prey to his impeccable logic. And no one likes being made to look a fool in front of his peers.’

‘So a number of people might have meant him harm?’

‘Harm in a future debate, perhaps – to maul him, as he did them – but I cannot imagine anyone wishing him physical hurt. We are scholars, not politicians.’

‘Did you see anyone give him a piece of cake?’ asked Michael.

Tynkell regarded him balefully. ‘You may not have left me much in the way of authority, but I have enough to prevent scholars from eating in church. However, there were refreshments in the vestry afterwards, provided by Winwick Hall. You must remember, Brother – you were there.’

‘Only long enough to grab the merest morsel. I had to go to choir practice.’

Prudently, Tynkell passed no remark on either statement. ‘It was kind of Winwick to provide the food yesterday. The Guild of Saints obliged on the first day, but refused to do it a second time, lest we debated until Christmas, and they were compelled to feed us every night.’

‘From what I saw, that was not an unreasonable concern,’ muttered Michael.

‘But Winwick was caught out by the number of scholars who appeared for the victuals, especially as many had not bothered with the debate, and only wanted the food.’ Tynkell did not look at Michael. ‘So several guildsmen came to their rescue. De Stannell sent wine, Meryfeld marchpane, Eyer nuts and Edith Stanmore some magnificent fruitcake.’

‘My sister?’ Bartholomew was alarmed. ‘And Hemmysby ate some?’

‘We all did,’ replied Tynkell. ‘There must have been two hundred of us, and we all enjoyed her baking. Hemmysby stood in my little group in the vestry. I am fairly sure he took some cake. He had no wine, nuts or marchpane, though. There was not enough of the first, and he did not like the second and third.’

‘Who else was in this group?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew remembered that Hemmysby often mentioned his aversion to nuts and anything containing them.

‘William and Thelnetham, who spent the time bickering over some tract one of them had penned; Rougham, who did not attend the debate and only came for the food; and Illesy and his Fellows, along with that loutish student who acts as a guide for Bon – Uyten. He hails from John Winwick’s home village, you know, and he has taken the name to–’

‘When did these refreshments finish?’ interrupted Michael curtly, not interested in irrelevancies.

‘About halfway through your choir practice, which we could hear quite clearly from here. I was vexed because everyone left me to do the clearing up alone, even the Winwick men, who used the excuse that they were expecting a visit from you. I pointed out that you would not come as long as the choir was singing, but to no avail.’

‘I did visit,’ said Michael. ‘They were settled in their parlura by then.’

‘A few scholars chatted outside the door while I laboured,’ Tynkell went on. ‘I sent them packing when I finished. It was dark, so I cannot tell you who they were. However, one was definitely Hemmysby, because he stumbled over something and we exchanged words about it.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he felt unwell, but it was a passing remark, and I did not know he was suffering the beginnings of a fatal fever – obviously, or I would have tried to help him. I last saw him walking up the High Street alone. I assumed he was going home.’

Michael looked at Bartholomew. ‘You were right in what you suggested last night: he must have felt too ill to reach Michaelhouse, so he headed for our church instead. But he could not open the door and he died in the graveyard.’

Tynkell crossed himself. ‘At least he breathed his last on holy ground.’

‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ said Michael bleakly.

‘What now, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, as they stood outside St Mary the Great. ‘And please do not say we should visit Edith and demand to know why she poisoned her cake. If she were the culprit, there would be two hundred casualties, not just one – you included.’

‘I did not have any fruitcake,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Warden Shropham cornered me to gripe about Winwick Hall, and it had all gone by the time I managed to escape. I had to make do with a few scraps of marchpane and a handful of nuts. And wine, of course. So the poison was not in those. Or at least, it was not in the few morsels that I managed to snag.’

‘There was no wine inside Hemmysby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I would have smelled it. And Tynkell was right: Hemmysby disliked nuts, so would not have taken them or the marchpane. However, this does not mean that Edith killed him. Perhaps he had cake twice yesterday – the poisoned one and what he took in the vestry.’

‘How? He was at the debate all day, and Tynkell would not have let him devour pastries in the church.’ Michael was thoughtful. ‘How long does dormirella take to work?’

‘It is immediate. However, what you really want to know is: when would he have noticed? And the answer is that it depends how much he was given, which is beyond my skills to determine.’

‘Well, we know when he had it. The debate finished at dusk, and Tynkell has just told us that the following refreshments were over halfway through choir practice. That means Hemmysby ate the poison between seven o’clock and half-past eight.’

‘He lingered afterwards, chatting. He told Tynkell he was unwell, but he could not have been too ill or he would have asked for help. I imagine the accolades of admiring colleagues kept him lively, but once he was alone, he began to feel lethargic. He probably decided to rest at St Michael’s on the way home, but when the latch stuck, he collapsed and slipped into unconsciousness.’

‘So our first duty is to speak to the others who were with him in the vestry – William, Thelnetham, the men from Winwick Hall and Rougham. And we are in luck, because here comes Rougham now.’

The Gonville physician had treated himself to a new gown for the beginning of term; it fitted snugly around his ample paunch. He pointed across the road as he approached, to where Holm and Hugo were just entering Eyer’s shop.

‘Those two are always together,’ he remarked. ‘Almost as much as you and Julitta.’

Bartholomew felt himself blush. ‘I do not–’

‘Yes, you do,’ countered Rougham. ‘And it is reckless to cavort with the wife of the town’s only surgeon. He might take deadly revenge if you are ever in need of his services.’

‘Have you heard that Hemmysby is dead?’ asked Michael, tactfully changing the subject. When Rougham nodded, he continued. ‘Tynkell tells me that you were in the group which enjoyed refreshments with him after the debate. Did he seem ill to you then?’

‘He said he had a headache, but that is not surprising, considering he was shut inside a stuffy church all day, listening to clamouring voices. What killed him? A seizure?’

‘Yes,’ lied Michael. ‘But its suddenness has perplexed us, so we are trying to learn more about his last hours.’

Rougham thought carefully. ‘I did not attend the debate, but in the vestry afterwards, it was clear that he was delighted with his performance – positively glowing. Perhaps he died because he was so pleased with himself.’

It was a ridiculous assertion and to avoid saying so, Bartholomew moved abruptly to Stanmore. ‘I have been thinking about my brother-in-law’s death–’

‘What, again?’ groaned Rougham. ‘How many more times must I repeat myself? He was dying by the time I arrived. I wish I could have saved him, but some cases are beyond even my superior skills, and there was nothing I could do. I am sorry for Edith, but these things happen.’

‘You said it was marsh fever. Are you sure?’

‘Yes, because I suffer from it myself.’

‘Did he say anything when you came to his bedside?’

‘Not to me, but he talked to Edith about his will. However, as I have told you several times already, I met him on Bridge Street shortly before his Guild meeting and we exchanged greetings. He was not his usual cheerful self, but we all have days when we wish we had stayed in bed, and I thought nothing of it. With hindsight, it is obvious that he was ailing then.’

‘What else do you remember about that discussion?’

‘For God’s sake, Bartholomew! It was ten weeks ago, and we only spoke for a moment. I just recall that he seemed tired and dispirited. That is all.’ Rougham regarded him sharply. ‘I hope you do not think there was anything untoward about his demise.’

‘Oswald went to another meeting before going to the guildhall,’ said Bartholomew, disinclined to answer. ‘I do not suppose he mentioned that to you, did he?’

‘No. However, I recommend you stay out of his affairs. He was not always scrupulous, and you may put yourself in danger. I know this is not something you want to hear, but it is true.’

‘You think he was doing something unethical at this prior meeting?’

‘Now you are putting words in my mouth. I spoke only to warn you that if you dig, you might not like what you uncover. Leave well alone, and let your family continue to honour his memory.’

‘How do you know he was unscrupulous?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Did someone tell you?’

‘It is common knowledge, man,’ said Rougham, exasperated. ‘Moreover, I saw him with Potmoor several times, heads together as they negotiated. And Potmoor is a criminal.’

‘Edith believes that Oswald met Potmoor the night he died.’

‘Perhaps he did. It would certainly explain his lack of cheer – I would not be easy after enduring the company of such an evil creature either. I am glad Lawrence is Potmoor’s physician, not me.’

‘Yet you attended Potmoor when he thought he was dying.’

‘So did you,’ flashed Rougham. ‘I did it for money. Hugo enticed me there with the promise of a very princely sum, and I have a half-built College chapel. However, to return to Stanmore, Potmoor was not the only scoundrel with whom he associated.’

‘Who else?’

‘Guildsmen – Mayor Heslarton, de Stannell, Weasenham, the Frevill clan. All are wealthy, and did not become so by being gentle. None are men with whom you should trifle, especially if you intend to prove he was murdered. No, do not deny it – that is why you are asking me these questions. Edith has never been happy with my diagnosis, and she has persuaded you to her way of thinking.’

‘But you are certain that marsh fever was the cause?’

‘Quite sure. And I shall call for your resignation if you apply for permission to dig him up and prove me wrong. I know you have been itching to expand your skill with corpses, but anatomy is unethical, distasteful, and those who indulge in it are cursed by God.’

There was little that could be said after such a remark, and Bartholomew was glad when Cynric arrived with a summons from a patient, allowing him to escape. Michael chatted to the Gonville physician a little while longer, then continued his enquiries alone, questioning witness after witness about Hemmysby’s behaviour at the debate, then interviewing the residents of St Michael’s Lane about the theft of the Stanton Hutch. Despite his best efforts, he learned nothing useful. Tired and glum, he revived his flagging energies by inveigling an invitation to dine at the Dominican Priory. As he emerged, he met Master Lawrence, who had been for a stroll along the Hadstock Way.

‘Why did you leave your lucrative post at Court?’ he demanded without preamble. He disliked the Oxford-trained physician, and failed to understand why Bartholomew seemed to enjoy his sickly-sweet company.

Lawrence smiled seraphically. ‘To give younger men a stab at the job, and to repay God for His goodness by dedicating the rest of my life to teaching.’

‘Very noble,’ murmured Michael. ‘You were one of the last people to see Hemmysby alive. What can you tell me about the refreshments in the vestry at St Mary the Great?’

‘I saw him eat some fruitcake, but he refused nuts and marchpane, and there was not enough wine. Have you solved Elvesmere’s murder yet, Brother? Nerli tells me that Potmoor is your prime suspect, but I doubt he is responsible. He saw the face of God when Bartholomew raised him from the dead, and such men tend to be wary of sinning.’

‘Is that so?’ said Michael flatly.