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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘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 longe
r, 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.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was late afternoon before Bartholomew was free again. Irritated by the encounter with Lawrence, Michael took him straight to Winwick Hall, where they began the tortuous business of persuading the porter that they had legitimate business inside. Jekelyn was encouraged in his insolence by Uyten, the thick-eared student who acted as Bon’s guide. The lad was newly missing his front teeth, and Bartholomew recalled that Goodwyn had mentioned them being punched out during a skirmish in the Griffin.

  ‘I hail from our founder’s birthplace,’ he lisped, although neither Bartholomew nor Michael had asked. ‘He invited me to study with Master Bon, as he believes I shall be a great asset to him at Court one day. He has promised to make me a College prefect next year.’

  ‘The nepotism begins,’ murmured Michael. ‘Cambridge will soon be full of men whom John Winwick wants groomed to support him.’

  Bartholomew stopped in surprise as he entered the courtyard. It heaved with students, and he could tell by the amount of baggage they had brought that most were wealthy. They were moving into the dormitory on the top floor of the hall, and there was a gale of laughter when a stair collapsed under the press of feet, sending one lad tumbling into the arms of his cronies.

  ‘We have forty students already,’ gloated Uyten. ‘And Illesy plans to take even more.’

  ‘Where will they all sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, stunned.

  Uyten shot him a superior look. ‘In the hall and the Fellows’ rooms. We have lots of space, and will soon be bigger than all the other Colleges combined. Moreover, our founder has pledged extra money for accommodation next year.’

  ‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Michael, watching Uyten go over to issue bullying orders to a handful of arrogant young men who clearly resented the impertinence. ‘King’s Hall told me today that they fear losing their status as largest and wealthiest College. I told them they had nothing to worry about. Perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘Or perhaps you weren’t,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘I am sure the hall roof was straighter when I was last here, and you just saw that stair give way. Maybe the place will tumble about their ears before its members’ ambitions are realised.’

  ‘The building is just settling. The ground is soft, and all structures shift when they are raised in this part of the town. You should see the angle on Gonville’s chapel.’

  ‘There is Eyer,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the pink-faced apothecary emerge from the hall and weave his way through the students. ‘We can ask how much dormirella Holm bought.’

  ‘Here,’ said Eyer, dropping a flask of poppy juice into Bartholomew’s bag as he passed. ‘Young Aungel told me that Goodwyn used all yours in an experiment, and no physician should be without such a basic weapon in his armoury.’

  ‘But I cannot pay—’ began Bartholomew.

  ‘Consider it a gift for the poor.’ Eyer held up his hand when Bartholomew began to ask his question. ‘Later, Matt. Bon was in urgent need of a poultice for his eyes, and I had to abandon my shop to bring it. Come to see me when you have finished here. Perhaps we can dine together.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael, although the flash of surprise in Eyer’s eyes said the monk had not been included in the invitation. ‘We shall be there shortly.’

  Provost Illesy and three of his Fellows – Ratclyf was missing – were in the parlura, enjoying warmed wine and Lombard slices. As these were Michael’s favourites, he helped himself. Illesy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at the liberty, Nerli scowled, and Lawrence smiled affably. Bon sensed something was happening, and turned his head this way and that as he attempted to determine what.

  ‘It is unmannerly to foist yourself on another College and start scoffing its comestibles,’ said Nerli in his oddly accented Latin. ‘Or is such behaviour encouraged in Michaelhouse?’

  ‘He is welcome to share.’ Lawrence smiled sweetly, showing red lips through his white beard. ‘So is Matthew. Come, both of you, and sit by the fire. There is a nasty nip in the air today.’

  ‘Have you caught Elvesmere’s killer?’ asked Illesy, leaning back in his chair and drumming beringed fingers on the table. ‘I hope so. It has now been three days since we had the terrible shock of finding his body in the latrine.’

  ‘I know,’ said Michael, equally curt. ‘And considerable progress has been made.’

  ‘Good,’ said Nerli, although Bartholomew thought the response lacked enthusiasm.

  ‘You asked us to tell you if we remembered anything else that might help,’ said Lawrence. ‘So I have been thinking about Elvesmere’s last evening. He complained of a headache. Perhaps that is why he left the College and ended up stabbed – he went out in search of fresh air.’

  ‘How do you know he was killed outside the College?’ pounced Michael. Lawrence frowned, but had no answer, so Michael asked his next question. ‘Where is Ratclyf?’

  ‘Ill,’ explained Nerli. ‘He drank too much wine last night, and is suffering the consequences.’

  ‘He indulged himself with claret because he mourns Elvesmere,’ said Lawrence, shooting the Florentine an admonishing glance.

  ‘Actually, he was more distressed about the fact that Hemmysby mauled him at the debate,’ countered Nerli. ‘He did not comport himself very skilfully, and was ashamed of his performance.’

  ‘As well he should be,’ muttered Illesy sourly. ‘He should not have opened his mouth if he had nothing intelligent to say.’

  ‘Elvesmere,’ prompted Nerli. ‘What progress have you made exactly, Brother?’

  ‘Quite a bit,’ hedged the monk. ‘But we shall resolve the matter much more quickly if you answer a few questions. Shall we begin with the Guild of Saints? I understand you are all members.’

  ‘It is a perk of being Fellows here,’ explained Illesy, although with obvious irritation that he was to be interrogated yet again. ‘It has some lovely people, but also some dreadful villains.’

  ‘Your old employer, Potmoor, being the greatest of them,’ put in Nerli acidly. ‘And Stanmore being another.’

  ‘You knew Oswald?’ asked Bartholomew, cutting across Illesy’s indignant objection to the remark. ‘I thought he died before you arrived.’

  ‘We came a month before he passed away,’ explained Lawrence. ‘Winwick Hall did not exist then, of course, but our founder wanted us here anyway, to learn the lie of the land.’

  ‘Did you see him the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It happened not long after a Guild function.’

  Nerli yawned. ‘I do not recall. It was weeks ago now.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Bon sullenly. ‘He accused me of taking a second goblet of wine before others had had their first. How was
I supposed to know who had drunk what when I cannot see? Then he blathered on about the high tax on foreign wool. It was boring.’

  ‘He was explaining why he could not give the widows’ fund more money,’ said Lawrence, gently reproachful. ‘The King increased excise on imports, so he had less available cash.’

  ‘That was Knyt’s fault,’ said Nerli. ‘Stanmore usually smuggled his supplies through the Fens, but Knyt found out and told the Sheriff. A reception committee was waiting when Stanmore’s barge docked, so he was forced to pay his dues.’

  ‘Oswald was not a smuggler,’ said Bartholomew, although he spoke more from loyalty than conviction. Prudently, Michael changed the subject.

  ‘After yesterday’s debate, you chatted to the Chancellor, Rougham and—’

  ‘What does this have to do with catching Elvesmere’s killer?’ demanded Nerli.

  ‘I am not at liberty to say,’ replied Michael loftily. ‘It may adversely affect the outcome of my enquiries. However, I want to know whether Hemmysby ate cake from the same plate as you.’

  ‘What an extraordinary question!’ exclaimed Illesy. ‘Why should we answer that?’

  ‘The good Brother has told us why,’ said Lawrence quietly. ‘It is pertinent to his enquiries about Elvesmere. However, I cannot help. I never eat between meals, as it is bad for the digestion, so I did not notice who had what last night.’

  ‘I cannot help either,’ said Bon, turning his milky eyes towards the monk. ‘I had lots of fruitcake, marchpane and nuts, but I could not see the platters, let alone tell you who ate from them. However, I objected to Hemmysby joining us. He attacked me viciously in front of the entire University, then had the audacity to say it was nothing personal.’

  ‘It was not,’ said Nerli. ‘You just happen to have easily crushed views on apostolic poverty.’

  ‘It was Bon’s first time in the debating chamber,’ said Lawrence reprovingly. ‘And Ratclyf’s. Hemmysby should have been kinder to them both, and I told him so.’

  ‘You argued with him?’ asked Michael keenly.

  ‘It was not an argument,’ hedged Lawrence. ‘More an exchange of opinions. However, as he then died of a seizure, perhaps ill health led him to take such pleasure in humiliating others.’