The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 11

Bartholomew did not want to visit Clare Hall and ask questions about where Gille might have gone, lest he ran into Donwich who was sure to be hostile, so he dragged his feet all along Milne Street. As he passed Edith’s house, she hurried out to take his hand and kiss it.

‘Thank you for saving Philip yesterday,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘He says he would have drowned if you had not raced to the rescue.’

Bartholomew had hardly raced, and was uncomfortable with her gratitude. He tried to resist when she drew him inside her house, but she was insistent. Once through the door, he breathed in deeply, savouring the comfortingly familiar scents of baking cakes, herbs and the cloth in the warehouses behind the house. It reminded him of his happy childhood, when Edith had been more mother than sister, and he had not been obliged to dabble in the murky business of murder.

She led him to the solar, where he was pleased to see Matilde, although he was less delighted to note that Lucy and Chaumbre were there, too. The women were sitting at the table, and Lucy explained that they were discussing a new dress for Edith. Chaumbre looked on indulgently, while Matilde’s eyes twinkled with humour at the seriousness with which her friend was taking the subject.

‘But Edith has several dresses already,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘Why would she need another?’

‘To wear to our wedding, of course,’ explained Matilde gravely, although he could see she itched to laugh. ‘Obviously, none of us want to clash.’

‘No,’ agreed Lucy fervently. ‘So this is important.’

Bartholomew glanced at Chaumbre, who lounged in a cushion-loaded chair, being fussed over by servants. He saw the retainers were genuinely fond of him, perhaps because they knew who had stepped in to save them when Edith’s son had sold the roof from over their heads.

‘I shall never forget what you did for me yesterday, Matt,’ the dyer said, coming to clasp Bartholomew’s hand, although the physician managed to snatch it back before he could follow Edith’s example and kiss it. ‘Thank God Shardelowe is rebuilding the bridge, because I shall never set foot in a boat again.’

‘Good,’ said Edith, squeezing his arm affectionately. ‘I could not bear to lose you.’

At that moment, there was a tap on the back door, and a maid came to say it was a carter wanting payment for bringing a load of alum.

‘Where is my purse?’ asked Chaumbre, patting around his belt before giving a grimace of annoyance. ‘Damn, I keep forgetting! It is at the bottom of the river, along with everything else I collected from my Girton hoard. Do you have a few shillings I can borrow, Matt?’

Bartholomew had the money from the anonymous benefactor, but he could hardly part with that, as it was not his to lend. Fortunately, Matilde was able to oblige.

‘I will give it back on Friday,’ promised Chaumbre, beaming at her. ‘The monks at Ely have promised to pay me for thirty ells of cloth then. I shall be rolling in money.’

Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered if Morys was right to claim that Chaumbre was not as rich as everyone thought, and hoped Edith had not married a man who would exacerbate, rather than alleviate, the financial difficulties arising from Richard’s profligacy.

‘How are your murder enquiries proceeding, Matt?’ asked Edith conversationally.

‘Slowly,’ he replied, and glanced hopefully at Chaumbre. ‘I do not suppose you saw what happened at the bridge, did you? You are the only one I did not ask yesterday. You seemed too shocked to talk.’

‘I was too shocked,’ averred Chaumbre. ‘However, before I nearly died, I noticed a lot of children racing around.’

‘The builders are sure they did not push the stone. None are strong enough apparently.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaumbre. ‘But I did not say I saw a child push the stone – I said they were racing around. Some were on the ponticulus, while others lobbed mud and bits of wood. It was very distracting. And it all happened at once.’

He gave Bartholomew a meaningful look, all pursed lips and waving eyebrows.

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you claiming that their antics were a diversion – one to let the culprit kill Elsham?’

‘Yes,’ replied Chaumbre. ‘It did not occur to me at the time, but with hindsight, I see that was precisely the plan. But what makes you think Elsham was the target? I cannot imagine it is easy to direct a large lump of rock with any degree of accuracy.’

‘Well, who else could warrant that sort of attention?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The other passengers on the ferry comprised two nuns and the town’s surgeon, so I doubt it was them. Or are you suggesting that you were the target?’

‘Of course not,’ said Chaumbre indignantly. ‘I am not the one investigating murder.’

‘You think Matt was the intended victim?’ cried Matilde, and turned to him in alarm. ‘You must promise to keep Cynric with you until the villain is caught, because I do not want to be a widow ere I am wed.’

‘Like me,’ muttered Lucy gloomily, before Bartholomew could tell her that Cynric was too busy protecting the College from a pair of warlocks. ‘I am a widow in all but name.’

‘You seem to have found solace in Donwich’s arms,’ said Chaumbre baldly, although his smile was amiable enough.

‘Not his arms,’ corrected Lucy stiffly. ‘His company. We are just friends.’

‘It is more than that for him,’ said Chaumbre. ‘He is besotted with you.’

‘And Chancellor Aynton was so concerned about the liaison that he followed Donwich the night he was killed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is why he was out alone.’

Lucy sniffed. ‘Well, he need not have bothered. My relationship with Master Donwich is entirely innocent, much as he might wish it was otherwise.’

‘What will you say if he offers to marry you?’ asked Edith curiously. ‘He may, because Philip is right to say he is in your thrall. I suppose you could do worse. He is wealthy, reasonably attractive, and would at least try to make you happy.’

‘And I doubt any other suitor will be brave enough to take you,’ put in Chaumbre bluntly. ‘Not after seeing your litigious brother destroy Narboro.’

Lucy’s smile was pained. ‘Your observations are irrelevant, because Donwich does not want a wife. He loves University life too much to give it up for marriage.’

‘He would rather have a mistress, would he?’ asked Matilde. ‘I suppose he thinks that once he is Chancellor, he will abolish the statute that keeps scholars away from women.’

‘He will never be Chancellor,’ said Lucy, surprised she should think so. ‘The vicars-general will confirm Michael’s election, and poor Donwich will retreat to Clare Hall to lick his wounds. He is not like you, Matthew – prepared to sacrifice an academic career for love.’

She turned away to hide the tears in her eyes. Matilde went to comfort her, and for a while there was a tense silence. Eventually, Chaumbre broke it.

‘Narboro had two black eyes when I saw him earlier,’ he said conversationally. ‘I thought someone had punched him, but he claimed he had fallen down my dye-pits again.’

‘He is a liar,’ declared Edith. ‘Ignore him, dearest. Now, tell us about these murders, Matt. Who are your suspects?’

Bartholomew listed them, although he omitted Brampton out of courtesy to Lucy.

‘Donwich is not a killer,’ objected Chaumbre, startled to hear his friend on the list. ‘He is rude and conceited, but I do not see him resorting to violence. Of course, he did associate with Gille and Elsham, who are not very honourable. Thieves, in fact.’

‘Gille certainly is,’ agreed Edith. ‘He stole from my warehouse. He pretended to be looking at cloth, but when he left, a spool of ribbon had disappeared. I was tempted to challenge him about it, but decided it was not worth the aggravation.’

‘Stationer Weasenham thinks he filches exemplars,’ put in Lucy. ‘He loses several every week, nearly always after Gille has been in the shop, browsing.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Stasy and Hawick sell exemplars passed to them by Gille and Elsham. I wonder if they know they are handling stolen goods.’

‘I imagine they do,’ said Edith wryly. ‘They are not very honourable either. But next time you visit Clare Hall, ask to search Gille’s room. If you find Weasenham’s texts, it will prove that Gille is a felon. And while you are there, look for my ribbon, too.’

‘No,’ said Matilde at once. ‘Supposing the falling stone was intended for you, Matt? The killer might be anyone, and going to Clare Hall could be dangerous.’

‘I was not the target,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘First, it would be a lot easier to strike when I am out alone at night, visiting patients, and second, I am sure Elsham’s death is connected to his murder of Huntyngdon. There is no need to worry.’

But he could see from her anxious face that he had failed to convince her.

Clare Hall was not a happy College. Bartholomew sensed it the moment the porter opened the gate and conducted him to the conclave. It was not surprising. Aynton and Elsham were dead in suspicious circumstances, Elsham had confessed to a murder, Gille had absconded, and their Master was engaged in an unedifying dispute that entailed him being awarded the dubious title of Anti-Chancellor.

The Fellows were in the conclave, their faces lined with worry. They were sitting around the table, and it was clear that Bartholomew had interrupted an impromptu meeting. Before he could speak, there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and Donwich swept in.

‘What are you all doing, gathered here so furtively?’ he demanded. ‘Plotting against me?’ Then he saw Bartholomew and grew angrier still. ‘And you can get out!’

‘The Chancellor sent him,’ said Pulham coolly. ‘And if you oust him, everyone will think we have something to hide.’

Donwich regarded him haughtily. ‘By “Chancellor”, do you refer to that impostor Michael? I do not recognise his authority, and neither should you.’

Pulham returned his glare levelly. ‘Aynton and Elsham died horribly, and Bartholomew has been appointed to investigate. If we want answers, I suggest we cooperate.’

‘Let us talk to him, Master,’ urged March pleadingly. ‘You can go and prepare for your interview with the vicars-general instead.’

‘I have no need to prepare,’ retorted Donwich arrogantly. ‘Michael called the election with indecent haste and then he cheated. That is all they need to know.’

The vicars-general would dismiss his claim out of hand if he took that attitude, thought Bartholomew. Then Pulham asked what had transpired on the riverbank the previous day. Donwich had been about to stalk out, but he stayed to listen to what Bartholomew had to say.

‘So Elsham confessed to stabbing Huntyngdon,’ the physician finished, ‘but he claimed it was a favour for a friend. Not Gille, but someone else.’

‘In other words, Elsham was innocent,’ said Donwich. ‘A helpless victim, who was bullied into committing a crime against his will. And Gille fled in terror of his life.’

‘Elsham had just four friends,’ said Pulham, ignoring his Master’s self-serving interpretation of events. ‘Gille, Donwich, Stasy and Hawick. No one else liked him.’

‘Now just a moment,’ began Donwich angrily, ‘I am not–’

‘Gille has absconded, Master,’ interrupted March sternly. ‘He raced here shortly after Elsham died, packed a bag and bolted. I told him that running away smacks of a guilty conscience, but he refused to listen. Assuming he had taken refuge with Stasy and Hawick, I went to Shoemaker Row, aiming to reason with him again. He was not there.’

‘We have been racking our brains for other places he might be,’ Pulham told Bartholomew. ‘But with no success.’

‘I have it on good authority that he is a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps that is why he ran – he cannot risk being questioned too closely, lest it leads to his exposure as a felon.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Donwich, incensed anew. ‘That is slander.’

‘If he is innocent, prove it by letting me search his room,’ said Bartholomew, feeling he had cornered the Master rather nicely. He certainly expected to find stolen goods there, but more importantly, there might be something that would tell him where Gille had gone.

The Fellows agreed at once, although Donwich spluttered his outrage. They ignored him and conducted Bartholomew up the stairs, their Master stamping along behind them, muttering venomously under his breath.

Gille and Elsham had occupied a pleasant room overlooking the river and the water meadows beyond. Bartholomew began to search it.

‘Where is Elsham’s Book of Hours?’ demanded Pulham, who loved beautiful texts, and always noticed the ones other people owned. ‘He kept it on this shelf, but it has gone.’

‘I imagine Elsham bequeathed it to Gille,’ shrugged Donwich. ‘So Gille took it with him when he left. They were friends, after all.’

‘No, he left it to Clare Hall,’ countered Pulham. ‘I drew up the deed myself. He also wanted us to have all his jewellery, but that is missing, too.’

Incensed that their College might be the victim of a crime, everyone – including Donwich – began to hunt for the items listed in Elsham’s will. They were not in the room, although they did discover a spool of ribbon and a pile of exemplars under a loose floorboard.

‘Just a moment!’ cried Pulham, examining the find. ‘Two of these exemplars are mine! I assumed a student had borrowed them to study over the summer, but now it becomes apparent that Gille took them.’

‘So Gille is a thief and Elsham was a murderer,’ said March heavily, and gave Donwich an unpleasant look. ‘Charming men you appointed as Fellows, Master. We were right to voice our reservations, and you should have listened.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ blustered Donwich, struggling to conceal his dismay. ‘Or more likely, a conspiracy, designed to discredit me in front of the vicars-general. Next, you will be claiming that I am the “friend” who ordered Elsham to kill Huntyngdon.’

‘We know you would never do such a thing, Master,’ said Pulham, although Bartholomew thought his voice lacked conviction.

Then the porter appeared to announce the arrival of another visitor – Senior Proctor Brampton, resplendent in his new robes of office. Brampton listened to March’s account of what had been found, then turned imperiously to Bartholomew.

‘Clearly, Gille and Elsham deceived poor Donwich most grievously. However, as one is dead and the other has vanished, we shall say no more about it. The matter is closed.’

‘It is not closed!’ objected Bartholomew, astonished that Brampton should think so. ‘We need to find Gille so he can be questioned. How else will we establish the identity of Elsham’s so-called friend?’

‘I doubt he exists,’ said Brampton dismissively. ‘And if he does, it will likely be Stasy or Hawick. They sell charms and spells openly now, so we know they are not respectable men. The rot is in Michaelhouse, as well as Clare Hall, so I advise you to keep your mouth shut about what you think you have discovered here.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Is this how you will keep order in the University? By looking the other way when crimes are committed?’

Brampton opened his mouth to respond, but Donwich spoke first.

‘You are a good friend, Brampton. I shall make you my deputy when I am Chancellor.’

Donwich took Brampton to his quarters for refreshment, taking care to let Bartholomew know that he was not invited. The snub mattered not at all to the physician, who would not have accepted anyway, but the Fellows were mortified by Donwich’s shabby manners, and sought to make up for it with offers of pies, cake and ale. As he had not eaten much all day, Bartholomew accepted, and listened while they talked about the growing rift between them and their Master.

‘Perhaps things will be easier now his henchmen have gone,’ said March hopefully. ‘He cannot intimidate us so easily without them. However, I hope Brampton does not intend to step into their shoes. I do not understand him at all. Michael promoted him, so why does he fawn over his patron’s rival?’

‘Hedging his bets,’ said Pulham darkly, and turned to Bartholomew. ‘We will write to Gille’s students, asking if they know where he has gone. If we hear anything, we will inform you at once. Meanwhile, please tell Michael that we are cooperating with your investigation, and have nothing to do with whatever Gille and Elsham were embroiled in.’

‘Donwich toadies to Brampton because he is Lucy’s brother,’ said March, refusing to let the subject drop. ‘He aims to make the man his friend, so he can inveigle himself into her company more often. I hope to God this infatuation burns out soon. It is embarrassing.’

‘Have you ever heard Brampton giving Donwich orders?’ fished Bartholomew. ‘Or making suggestions that Donwich then followed?’

‘You think Brampton might be the “friend” who is the author of all this trouble,’ surmised Pulham shrewdly. ‘That he told Donwich to kill Huntyngdon, but Donwich could not do it, so he issued the order to Elsham instead.’

‘Donwich has many faults, but ordering the murder of colleagues is not among them,’ said March firmly. ‘He is not a man for violence, as I have told you several times already.’

‘Not even to please the brother of the woman he loves?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps in exchange for a promise of freer access to her?’

‘Not even then. He is not a killer – just a silly man who has lost his way.’

Bartholomew left Clare Hall, his mind buzzing with thoughts and suspicions. It was early evening, and the intense heat was fading, leaving in its wake a sultry, reeking, sweaty stillness. He was waylaid twice when people begged him to visit victims of the flux, at which point he forgot murder and turned his mind to the spread of the disease that defied all logic. It was late when he had finished, and his route home took him along Shoemaker Row. As he was passing, he decided to visit Stasy and Hawick.

The ex-students’ shop was large, freshly painted, and they had commissioned a sign to hang above the door, on which was painted the serpent-entwined staff of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. Bartholomew arrived at the same time as Tulyet and Dickon, who had come to investigate a complaint made against the new medici by Margery Starre.

‘For buying her wares and passing them off as their own?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or for competing in an area where she considers herself to rule supreme?’

‘For knocking her over on Bridge Street yesterday,’ replied Tulyet. ‘Cynric saw it happen, and agrees that it was deliberate.’

Bartholomew told him what he had learned about the murders since they had last met, while Tulyet confessed that he had made no progress at all on the death of Burgess Baldok. As they spoke, Dickon amused himself by lobbing pebbles at the sign, and succeeded in giving it several nasty dents. Neither Bartholomew nor Tulyet told him to stop.

Inside, the shop was pleasantly light and spacious. There was a large dispensary at the front, with a smaller chamber at the back, presumably for private consultations. Both smelled of the fresh rushes on the floor, while the shelves were loaded with the tools of their trade – urine flasks, astrological tables and jars containing remedies. All the pots were labelled in Latin, although a closer inspection told Bartholomew that the names were humorously fictitious and most were empty, there for show rather than actual use. The owners came to greet them.

‘People will come here because they like the professional ambience,’ bragged Stasy, looking around his new domain with undisguised pleasure. ‘The other physicians cannot compete, so will be driven out of business.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘You will steal Matt’s paupers and treat them for free, will you? And most of his paying customers have been with him for years, so are unlikely to defect.’

‘They will,’ countered Stasy, bristling. ‘I visited Master Chaumbre today, and offered him a very favourable rate. He promised to think about it.’

But Edith would never permit her husband to use another practitioner, while Chaumbre was still grateful for being fished out of the river. Bartholomew knew Stasy was lying.

‘Did you rent these premises with money earned from selling stolen exemplars?’ he asked, gratified when the pair blanched.

‘Stolen exemplars?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘Now you are no longer members of the University, that sounds like a crime I should explore.’

‘We never stole anything,’ gulped Hawick. ‘Gille and Elsham provided the goods – we merely sold them on to needy students.’

‘Then you will not mind me looking around upstairs,’ said Tulyet smoothly. ‘Just to be sure that Gille has not imposed himself on you without your knowledge.’

He disappeared before they could object, taking Dickon with him. Bartholomew was left with a nervous Hawick and an angrily blustering Stasy.

‘If the texts were stolen, we knew nothing about it,’ Stasy declared. ‘Gille assured us that everything was legally obtained. We had no reason to doubt him.’

‘Other than the fact that he is an unsavoury lout,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘However, I am more interested in the fact that Elsham claimed a “friend” ordered him to murder Huntyngdon. He had four confidants, and you two comprise half of them.’

‘We know nothing of murder,’ cried Hawick in alarm.

‘And we liked Huntyngdon,’ shrugged Stasy, less easily rattled. ‘We would never have done anything to harm him. Indeed, we had hoped to acquire him as a client, given that he was rich.’

‘Perhaps you tried and he refused,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘So you arranged his death before he could tell everyone else in King’s Hall to do likewise.’

Stasy scowled. ‘Now you are clutching at straws! You cannot prove such an accusation, and it is nothing but malicious conjecture.’

‘Then who else had enough power over Elsham to force him to kill?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Someone who knew that he and Gille stole exemplars for you, thus threatening a lucrative source of income?’

‘No one else knew – we kept it to ourselves.’ Hawick winced when he realised he had just admitted that they had not been ignorant of Gille’s felonious activities after all.

‘Talk to Rohese Morys,’ said Stasy quickly, in the hope that Bartholomew had not noticed the slip. ‘Elsham’s secret lover. He would have done anything for her, even though she was not very faithful in return.’

‘True,’ agreed Hawick, nodding vigorously. ‘She was seeing Baldok at the same time – that burgess who died in the spring. There were others, too: Hugh FitzAbsolon, Doctor Rougham, Thomas Mortimer the baker …’

‘Who else had influence over Elsham?’ asked Bartholomew, more interested in the murder victim than a list of Rohese’s conquests. ‘Donwich,’ replied Hawick spitefully. ‘The Master of his College.’

‘And Brother Michael,’ added Stasy, a sly cant in his eyes. ‘There must be some reason why he is not investigating this business himself – we all know how he loves a good murder to solve. Moreover, Donwich’s challenge should not take that long to resolve, so what is he really doing in St Mary the Great with these vicars-general?’

‘Gille is not here,’ reported Tulyet, clattering down the stairs before Bartholomew could reply. He held a book aloft. ‘But this has Elsham’s name written in the front, so why was it under your bed?’

‘It is Elsham’s Book of Hours,’ said Bartholomew, taking it from him, ‘which Gille stole before he fled Clare Hall. That means he was here.’

‘He must have sneaked in while we were out,’ shrugged Stasy. ‘Perhaps to apologise for involving us in his dishonest schemes. When he found we were not here, he left.’

‘A likely tale,’ said Tulyet contemptuously. ‘You two are playing with fire, and I strongly advise you to cooperate before it is too late.’

‘We are cooperating,’ snapped Stasy. ‘We are standing here with you, answering all your inane questions, are we not?’

‘What is that?’ asked Bartholomew suddenly, pointing to a dried toad on a shelf.

‘It is used for medicine,’ replied Stasy with calculated insolence.

‘Not any medicine I taught you,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Or do you use it for the kind of spells that have made Margery Starre famous?’

‘Witchery?’ asked Tulyet coldly. ‘I hope you are wrong, Matt, because I will not tolerate that sort of thing in my town. If you two are really warlocks, I shall hang you.’

‘You will hang us, but turn a blind eye to Margery Starre?’ demanded Stasy incredulously, a question that Bartholomew thought was actually not unreasonable.

‘She was not expelled from the University for chanting spells in St Mary the Great,’ Tulyet pointed out. ‘But speaking of her, she has made a complaint against you for assault.’

‘She was drunk,’ Hawick declared angrily. ‘She was reeling all over the place, and we were nowhere near her when she toppled over. Cynric will doubtless concoct a web of lies about it, but we speak the truth.’

‘And if you are wondering why Cynric is not here,’ said Stasy, with one of his aggravating smirks, ‘it is because he thinks we are tending flux victims in the Griffin. We gave him the slip because we do not like him dogging our every step. He has no right to do it, so call him off before he has an accident.’

‘Is that a threat?’ asked Bartholomew, sure the pair would be no match for Cynric, so not unduly concerned.

‘It is friendly advice,’ replied Stasy smoothly. ‘Tell him to desist.’

‘Or we will turn him into a dried toad,’ muttered Hawick.

‘I saw you at the Great Bridge when Elsham was killed,’ said Bartholomew, ignoring the bluster, although he suspected Cynric would take it seriously if he ever found out about the toad. ‘Did you see who pushed the stone onto him?’

‘No, because we were looking at Margery,’ said Hawick. ‘She was howling drunken curses at us, so we never saw what happened to Elsham.’

‘You should put these questions to Donwich,’ said Stasy slyly. ‘Elsham and Gille talked a lot about him when they were in their cups. He is in love with Brampton’s sister, and will do anything for her. Look to him for your answers, and leave us alone.’