Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  Bartholomew nodded, but the truth was that he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and the entire class could have thundered out during the night without waking him, so he was the last person who should be used as an alibi. Michael knew it.

  ‘Goodwyn is the culprit,’ he growled, as he and the physician walked back to Michaelhouse. ‘You were sleeping too deeply to notice he had gone, and his classmates are wary of exposing him as a liar, because he is older and bigger.’

  ‘And did what with the stolen hutch?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is not in my room, I assure you.’

  ‘Hid it somewhere else.’

  ‘Where? Cynric searched the College from top to bottom, and Goodwyn is new to the town – he will not know any safe places outside.’

  ‘Perhaps he has accomplices.’ Michael turned to glare; Goodwyn glowered back, unfazed by the monk’s hostility. ‘And even if it transpires that he is innocent, you should watch him. Langelee should never have taken him on.’

  ‘He did it for the double fees.’

  ‘Fees that have now disappeared,’ remarked Michael caustically. ‘But let us review again what we know about the hutch. The cellar was opened with the key from Langelee’s room, which was then replaced. You were out on Sunday evening. Did you notice anything odd when you came back?’

  ‘No, but the porter was away on his rounds, so I let myself in.’ A stricken expression crossed Bartholomew’s face. ‘Perhaps someone saw how easy it was, and simply copied me.’

  ‘Unlikely – Thelnetham was right to point out that if it were a random crime, the thief would not have known where to find the key.’ Michael’s expression hardened. ‘The culprit made a mistake when he targeted our home. You offered to help me catch him yesterday—’

  ‘I did not offer. You coerced me.’

  ‘—but I need help with the murders of Felbrigge and Elvesmere, too. No one has offered to take Felbrigge’s place, and it is difficult to manage so much without a Junior Proctor.’

  ‘I cannot, Brother,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unless you can arrange for more hours in the day. I am struggling to cope as it is.’

  ‘Felbrigge and Elvesmere were fellow scholars. You should want justice for them.’

  ‘I do, but—’

  ‘Good, it is settled then,’ said Michael, with such relief that Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. There were dark bags under his friend’s eyes, and he realised that he had been so wrapped up with his own problems that he had failed to notice the toll Michael’s responsibilities were taking on him – murders to solve, a huge influx of matriculands to control, all the difficulties surrounding the birth of a new College, and now the stolen hutch.

  ‘I can give you until the start of term, Brother. A week. After that I shall be swamped with teaching. We both will. So we had better make a start. What have you learned about Felbrigge?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Michael bitterly. ‘He was standing next to me when he was shot, but neither I nor anyone else saw a thing to help. My beadles found the bow, and we were able to deduce that it probably belonged to a professional archer, but that is all. In short, we still have no idea who did it or why.’

  ‘Perhaps Felbrigge was not the intended victim,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Maybe this professional archer was aiming at the Chancellor or you – the University’s most powerful scholar.’

  ‘I have already assessed that possibility and dismissed it. Such men do not miss their targets, and nor could they have mistaken Felbrigge for me or Tynkell. I wear my habit, Tynkell is thin and grey, and Felbrigge was short, fat and clad in a ceremonial robe of scarlet. The three of us look nothing alike.’

  ‘When I was at Winwick yesterday, Ratclyf said that Felbrigge was unpopular.’ Bartholomew spoke hesitantly, never happy with gossip. ‘That he was disliked by scholars and townsmen.’

  ‘It is true. Felbrigge managed to antagonise an extraordinary number of people while you and I were away in Peterborough. Clearly, I should never have left him in charge.’

  ‘Did you know he was arrogant and abrasive when you appointed him?’

  ‘Yes, but he was the only one who applied for the job, and I was desperate for help.’

  It was no surprise that scholars were not queuing up to be Michael’s helpmeet. He was dictatorial, impatient with mistakes, and hated being challenged. Moreover, the post was poorly paid, sometimes dangerous and involved everything Michael did not fancy doing himself.

  ‘Did you like him?’ Bartholomew asked.

  ‘Not really. On his first day in office he told me that he intended to step into my shoes by the end of the year. The audacity of the man! Anyway, he obviously angered someone less tolerant than me, and he paid for it with his life. Of course, he was a member of the Guild of Saints…’

  Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘Are you saying that one of them killed him? Lord, that would be awkward! They comprise the town’s most influential people – folk who will not appreciate being accused of murder. Who is on your list of suspects?’

  ‘I do not have a list, Matt. I have no evidence, remember? However, I keep coming back to the fact that Potmoor is in the Guild of Saints, and he is no stranger to murder…’

  Bartholomew sincerely hoped he was wrong. It was bad enough being held responsible for all the burglaries Potmoor was supposed to be committing, but if the felon had murdered a senior member of the University … He changed the subject uncomfortably. ‘What did you learn about Elvesmere yesterday?’

  ‘Very little. You say the knife wound was not instantly fatal, but no one heard him cry for help. And you say he was moved after he died, but my beadles found no bloody puddles anywhere in Winwick Hall – and they explored it very thoroughly.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, other than the fact his colleagues disliked him. Their porter – Jekelyn – let slip that Elvesmere was always arguing with them.’

  ‘Do they have alibis?’

  ‘No. They claim to have been in bed all night – alone. Jekelyn says no one came a-calling and that he never left his post. It is a lie, of course – all porters slip away to nap from time to time. So all we know for certain is that Elvesmere was alive when the scholars of Winwick Hall went to sleep, and dead when they awoke.’

  Because William had conducted the morning Mass, and he was noted for the speed with which he could gabble through the sacred words, the Michaelhouse men arrived home before breakfast was ready. Agatha, the formidable lady who oversaw the domestic side of the College, emerged from the kitchen to inform them that the food would not be ready until she said so. Women did not normally hold such sway in University foundations, but she had been Michaelhouse’s laundress for so long that not even Langelee was brave enough to challenge her authority.

  It was a pleasant day to loiter in the yard, though, and no one minded. The Fellows stood in a huddle near the door, while the students retreated to the far end of the yard, where they could chat about things they did not want their teachers to hear – ways to smuggle women into their bedrooms, secret stashes of wine, and the illicit gambling league established by Goodwyn.

  The weather was mild, and the sun shone in a pale blue sky. The trees were just starting to change colour, so summer green was mixed with autumn gold and orange. A blackbird sang from one, answered every so often, somewhat more shrilly, by the porter’s peacock. The chickens scratched happily in the dirt, and Clippesby went to talk to them when William raised the subject of the hutch, muttering that he could not bear to hear more speculation about the thief.

  ‘Perhaps he took it,’ said Thelnetham. A bloodstained rag around one finger marred his otherwise pristine appearance. ‘I know for a fact that he admired the bestiary I left in the chest, and he is mad. He told me last night that a goat plans to take part in today’s debate.’

  ‘It will be an improvement on some of the coxcombs who intend to speak there,’ remarked William, casting a pointed glance at the Gilbertine’s bright puce shoes.

  ‘What happened
to your hand, Thelnetham?’ asked Bartholomew, before they could argue.

  ‘I cut it on the church door,’ explained the Gilbertine. ‘The latch has always been awkward, but recently it has been much worse.’

  ‘It never sticks for me,’ said William immediately, watching Bartholomew unwind the bandage to inspect the wound. ‘Obviously, God does not want you in there.’

  ‘It does stick for you,’ countered Hemmysby. ‘I saw you wrestling with it only yesterday.’

  William scowled. ‘You are confusing me with someone else.’

  ‘I doubt that is possible,’ said Thelnetham unpleasantly, then jerked his hand away with a screech. ‘That hurt, Matthew! Have a care!’

  ‘We should replace that latch,’ said the portly Suttone. ‘It has been a nuisance for years.’

  ‘How?’ asked Langelee. ‘We cannot justify hiring a craftsman when we have no money for victuals. Indeed, it would not surprise me if breakfast this morning comprised nothing but sawdust and dung.’

  ‘I said ten free masses for the locksmith’s wife last year,’ mused Hemmysby. ‘I am sure he would give us a new mechanism if I asked nicely.’

  ‘So ask,’ ordered Langelee promptly. ‘Go now.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Hemmysby with a smile. ‘I am one of the main speakers at today’s debate, and I should spend the morning preparing. Will you be going, Master?’

  ‘No, I have camp-ball practice,’ replied Langelee, referring to the vicious sport at which he excelled. ‘However, I am sure College honour will be satisfied without me. Michael is also participating, I believe.’

  The monk nodded. ‘It is time the friars listened to what I have to say. The concept of apostolic poverty is—’

  ‘We friars will win,’ interrupted William rudely. ‘Because you monastics do not know what you are talking about. Our right to property and influence is a free gift from God, and you have no right to question His will.’

  ‘The loss of rightful dominion through sin is in conflict with sacerdotal power to consecrate the Eucharist independently of a state of grace,’ stated Thelnetham with considerable authority, launching into a part of the debate that his less intelligent rival was unlikely to understand. ‘That is the nub of the matter. What do you think, William?’

  ‘Our camp-ball team is looking good this year,’ began Langelee, aiming to nip the discussion in the bud. William was not the only one who struggled with the complexities of the dispute, and Langelee had no wish to listen to his clerics airing arguments that might have been in Ancient Sumerian for all the sense they made to him. ‘We have two new—’

  ‘The debate will see the friars victorious.’ William interrupted again, although not to answer Thelnetham’s question, as he had no idea whether it was the nub of the matter or not. ‘How could it not, when sensible priests like me and Hemmysby have important things to say?’

  ‘You are speaking?’ asked Suttone in alarm, an expression mirrored in the faces of the others. Michaelhouse did not enjoy an especially distinguished academic reputation, but what little it did have would be lost if William was allowed to hold forth.

  ‘Chancellor Tynkell invited William, who then very kindly agreed to let me take his place,’ said Hemmysby, much to everyone’s profound relief. ‘I have never spoken at the Cambridge Debate before, and I am touched by his generosity of spirit.’

  ‘Just wait until I see Tynkell,’ growled Michael. ‘He approached William for spite, just because I told him to stop trying to make a name for himself before he retires next year. First there was that new library, and now we have Winwick Hall. The man is a menace.’

  ‘Naturally, I shall be speaking,’ said Thelnetham, wincing as Bartholomew smeared his finger with a healing paste. ‘I shall not take long to demolish the friars, after which we shall all enjoy the refreshments provided by the Guild of Saints.’

  ‘Eat as much as you can,’ instructed Langelee, cutting across William’s immediate objections to the Gilbertine’s predictions. ‘I shall dine there, too, after camp-ball. Then we can cancel supper and conserve our supplies.’

  ‘Matt and I will not have time for such pleasures,’ said Michael, with the air of a martyr. ‘We shall be hunting thieves and killers. I will have to leave the church once I have said my piece, although I doubt any mere friar will be able to refute my conclusions.’

  ‘Gently, Matthew!’ cried Thelnetham, jerking his hand away a second time. ‘I am not a corpse, needing rough treatment to haul me back to the world of the living. I am already here.’

  ‘More is the pity,’ muttered William.

  ‘Speaking of corpses, I overheard Potmoor telling a henchman about Heaven yesterday,’ said Suttone. ‘He claimed he was quite happy there, and resented being dragged back to Chesterton.’

  ‘He was never in Heaven,’ declared William. ‘He was in Hell. He only thought it was Paradise because Matthew rescued him before he could get a good look at it.’

  ‘I still think he stole our hutch,’ said Thelnetham. ‘To prove to his nasty henchmen that he has not lost his touch.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Hemmysby. ‘If I had to pick a suspect, it would be someone from Winwick Hall. Their College was built too fast, and they need money to shore it up before it falls down around their ears.’

  ‘Do you have any particular reason for mentioning them?’ asked Michael keenly. ‘You know its people better than the rest of us – from being a fellow member of the Guild of Saints.’

  Hemmysby shrugged. ‘I am afraid not, Brother. I was just saying what I felt.’

  ‘You had better not indulge in unfounded statements this afternoon,’ warned Thelnetham. ‘Or you will make Michaelhouse a laughing stock. Still, better that than what Matthew and William are doing, one with his love of anatomy, and the other with his crass stupidity.’

  ‘I have no love of anatomy,’ objected William, startled. ‘It is a very nasty—’

  ‘It is a pity anatomy is frowned upon,’ said Hemmysby. ‘Lawrence from Winwick tells me it is greatly beneficial to our understanding of the human form. Personally, I applaud the practice.’

  ‘If that is the kind of thing you discuss at Guild meetings,’ said Thelnetham in distaste, ‘then I am glad I have not been invited to join.’

  When the breakfast bell rang, the Fellows abandoned their discussion to hurry up the spiral staircase to the hall, Michael and William vying for first place. Bartholomew let the students go in front of him, because he disliked being shoved and jostled, especially when the victuals were unlikely to be worth the scramble.

  ‘John,’ he called to Clippesby, who was still talking to the hens. ‘You will be late, and I do not want my new students following your example.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the Dominican, reluctantly abandoning avian company for human. ‘You have an exceptionally unruly horde this year. Aungel is a decent lad, but Goodwyn will lead him astray. And where Aungel goes, the others follow. Ethel told me.’

  ‘Who is Ethel?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The College’s top hen,’ replied Clippesby. ‘She is an observant bird when she is not eating, and she has been watching your lads carefully. Incidentally, five more applied to join them last night. I told Langelee that you would not appreciate such a large group, but he said we needed the money, and refused to listen.’

  ‘Five?’ Bartholomew was horrified. ‘But that will give me even more than I had last year – and I struggled then! How does he expect me to teach them properly?’

  ‘He does not care about that – he just wants their fees. You should see the size of William’s class. He does not mind, though, as he equates higher numbers with personal popularity. However, it will not take these young men long to realise that they are wasting their money by being with him, and then there will be trouble.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I had better speak to Langelee.’

  ‘Please do. Ethel says Langelee is wrong to overload our classes, as she believes we will not be in dire financial stra
its for long.’

  ‘Then let us hope she is right,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

  ‘Here come your new pupils now,’ said Clippesby, nodding to where a gaggle of young men were being conducted towards the hall by Goodwyn. ‘You must excuse me, Matt. I saw them tease a dog last night, and I have no wish to exchange pleasantries with cruel people.’

  Bartholomew regarded the newcomers warily, thinking they did not look like aspiring medici to him. They were beautifully dressed, and their elegant manners suggested that they would be more at home at Court than dealing with the sick. He could only suppose that Langelee had accepted them without explaining what being a physician entailed.

  ‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ said Goodwyn unctuously. ‘Here are your latest recruits. I am sure we shall all become very fine physicians under your expert tutelage. Did I tell you that we are acquainted with your nephew, by the way? Richard said you tried to make him a physician, too, but he saw the light, and became a lawyer instead. There is money in law.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, coolly, disliking the lad’s disingenuous tone. ‘Perhaps you should consider studying it.’

  Goodwyn laughed. ‘Perhaps I shall, but not until I have seen what you have to offer.’

  ‘How do you know Richard?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Goodwyn would transfer to another tutor if he overwhelmed him with work. He decided it was worth a try.

  ‘From a tavern we all frequent in London. We are delighted that he has decided to stay in Cambridge for a spell, as life would not be nearly as much fun if he returned to the city.’

  ‘Life will revolve around lectures and reading,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘So unless he plans to join you in the library, your paths will seldom cross.’

  He walked away, smothering a smile at the newcomers’ immediate consternation.

  The meal did not last long, as there was very little to eat, and Langelee’s prediction of inedibility was more accurate than was pleasant. There was no dung – at least, not that was readily identifiable – but the bits floating in the pottage were almost certainly wood shavings. When it was over, Bartholomew snagged Langelee before he could disappear to punch, bite, kick, scratch and maul his teammates in the name of sport.