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

by Susanna Gregory

‘It is not ridiculous,’ objected Goodwyn indignantly. ‘And I am sure you cannot object to us expanding our minds. If you do, you should have locked your door.’

  Bartholomew had locked it, but now it stood open. He looked up at the top shelf, where he kept his most expensive and dangerous compounds, and was horrified to see that the jars had been thoroughly raided. He also noticed that several lads were green about the gills, so he ordered them all outside into the fresh air.

  ‘I thought I had made it clear that no one was to enter the storeroom without me,’ he said, once the coughing and wheezing had eased. His voice was soft, but even the densest student could hear the anger in it. ‘Some of those mixtures are poisonous, and you are not yet qualified to handle them. And especially not to conduct silly experiments unsupervised. If it happens again, you can all find another College.’

  ‘You cannot dismiss us,’ said Goodwyn challengingly. ‘We paid good money to—’

  He stopped speaking when Bartholomew glowered furiously at him, and stared at his feet instead, flushing a deep, resentful red. The other students exchanged uncomfortable glances, and there was a tense silence until Cynric broke it.

  ‘Knyt, boy,’ he said softly. ‘We should go.’

  ‘I will sort out the mess later,’ said Bartholomew in the same tightly controlled voice. He would have liked to tell the students to do it, but there was a danger that two substances might come together and harm them, and tempting though it was to wish the likes of Goodwyn in the cemetery, he had no wish to put the others in danger.

  He stalked away. Goodwyn and the other newcomers immediately began muttering, and he was half inclined to sneak back to see if they were plotting revenge, but he was a senior scholar and such antics were beneath him. He kept walking, Cynric trotting at his side and Knyt’s servant scurrying behind. Eventually, he shot the book-bearer a rueful grin.

  ‘Now we have even more reason to find the Stanton Hutch. I want it back so we can return Goodwyn’s fees, because I am not teaching him next term. He is a bad influence on the others.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cynric fervently. ‘Because I do not like him either. Did I tell you that I caught him stealing wine from the kitchen today? He was fortunate it was me, not Agatha.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘So if he does it again, stand aside and let him walk into the dragon’s mouth. That would solve all our problems.’

  ‘Damn!’ Cynric was disgusted with himself. ‘Why did I not think of that?’

  It was a long way to Knyt’s house, a pretty mansion on the Chesterton road. The weather had changed since Bartholomew had been in the conclave. Clouds had scudded in, brought by a gusty wind that made the trees sway and roar. It was unusually dark, too, and although Cynric had brought a torch, it was not easy to see the ruts and potholes in its guttering light. The air smelled of the fens, a dank, rich aroma of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, but there was also the sharper, cleaner tang of fresh-fallen autumn leaves.

  After a while, they saw another torch bobbing on the road. It was a servant sent to meet them. The man grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and urged him into a trot, sobbing that Knyt was the best master in the country, genuinely loved by everyone who worked in his household.

  When they arrived, Bartholomew’s cloak was whisked off, and he and his bag were bundled with polite but urgent speed along a corridor and up a flight of stairs; Cynric was escorted with equal briskness into the kitchen for refreshments. The house spoke of quietly understated wealth, Knyt’s affluence visible not in showy tapestries and gaudy ornaments, but in the quality of the furniture and the discreet luxury of the rugs on the floor.

  In a large chamber on the upper storey, a fire crackled comfortably and lamps emitted a gentle, golden glow. It was dominated by a bed piled with furs. A number of servants stood around it, nearly all of them weeping. A woman stood at its foot, and Bartholomew recognised her as Olivia, Knyt’s wife of twenty years or more.

  ‘You are here at last,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘Good. My husband died an hour ago, but you raised Potmoor from the dead, so now you can do the same for John.’

  Bartholomew took several steps away, cursing himself for a fool. Knyt had never been his client, and he should have been suspicious of a summons out of the blue. Then he saw Rougham in the shadows by the window, while Surgeon Holm, physicians Lawrence and Meryfeld, and Eyer the apothecary stood near the hearth. Bartholomew’s arrival meant that all Cambridge’s medical professionals were now present, just as they had been when Potmoor had ‘died’.

  ‘Mistress Olivia would like a miracle,’ explained Rougham icily, clearly outraged by the fact that she had called the others. ‘She will not believe me when I say her husband is gone.’

  ‘He had a seizure,’ added Eyer helpfully. ‘A major one, of the kind that is always fatal. I have seen many such cases before, so it was not difficult for me to diagnose it in Knyt.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. Eyer was an apothecary, not a physician, so had no authority to draw such conclusions. He glanced at the others, and saw they were similarly bemused.

  ‘I conducted my own examination, naturally,’ said Rougham, his cool glance telling Eyer that he had overstepped his mark. ‘It was a colic-induced seizure, brought on by a surfeit of oysters. Lawrence and Meryfeld agree.’

  Eyer pulled an unpleasant face at the snub by omission, but it was nothing compared to the scowl Holm gave at the bald reminder that physicians were at the top of the medical profession, and everyone else was well below them.

  ‘Then there is nothing I can do, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew. He took a step towards the door, eager to leave, but two servants blocked his way. He tried to move past them, but they shoved him back, not roughly, but enough to tell him that he was not going anywhere.

  ‘It will not take a moment,’ said one quietly. ‘Just wave your salt almanac at him.’

  ‘Sal ammoniac,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And it worked with Potmoor because he was not dead, no matter what he claims now. He was suffering from a condition that—’

  ‘Just cure him,’ interrupted the servant. ‘John Knyt is a decent, honest soul, and he should not die while Potmoor lives. It would not be right. Just apply your salt almanac, and the whole town will praise you as an angel of God.’

  Bartholomew refrained from remarking that it was more likely to seal his reputation as a necromancer, and turned towards the sickbed, knowing he would not be allowed to leave until he had at least examined the patient. It did not take him long to see that Knyt was far beyond his skills, and had been for some time.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said gently to Olivia. ‘My colleagues are right. Your husband is dead.’

  ‘There,’ said Rougham in satisfaction. ‘May we go now? We cannot do any more to help, and it is very late.’

  Olivia ignored him. ‘Put your salt almanac to his nose, Doctor Bartholomew, like you did to John Potmoor.’

  ‘It will make no difference.’ It was not the first time someone had refused to believe that a loved one had gone, and Bartholomew knew the only way to convince Olivia was by patient kindness. He sat on a bench and gestured that she should perch next to him, so he could explain.

  ‘Do you have your salt almanac with you?’ she asked, not moving.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then use it,’ she ordered. ‘Now, please.’

  ‘Just do it, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘It will do no harm, and none of us will be permitted to leave until it is done.’

  Very reluctantly and feeling like a ghoul, Bartholomew rummaged in his bag for the new salts he had bought after he had superstitiously discarded the ones he had used on Potmoor. Rougham snatched them from his hand and waved them under Knyt’s nose, evidently intending to claim the credit if it worked. It did not, so he handed them back without a word. Bartholomew turned apologetically to Olivia, but her face was grim as she indicated that he was to do it himself.

  He did what she ordered, but her husband
remained as dead as ever.

  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.