‘I heard it again!’ hissed Potmoor, looking around wildly. ‘Someone is listening to us! I told you we should have met in Winwick Hall.’
‘We cannot,’ replied Illesy tartly. ‘You were seen the last time you came, and conclusions were drawn – conclusions that were bad for both of us.’
‘Then next time you can visit me in Chesterton.’ Potmoor began to stride towards Bartholomew’s monument. He pulled a knife from his belt as he went, and the expression on his face was malevolent. ‘I hate spies. If I find one here, I will—’
‘Provost Illesy!’ came Michael’s voice from across the cemetery. ‘Is that you? I was just coming to pray over the grave of an old friend. Do you have loved ones here?’
Bartholomew had braced himself for discovery, but nothing happened. When he summoned the courage to peer around the monument, Illesy was talking to Michael, and Potmoor had gone.
‘I buried an aunt here a year ago,’ the Provost was saying. ‘I often come to remember her before God, but I have finished now, so the churchyard is yours.’
When he was sure they were alone, Bartholomew stood up and glared at the monk.
‘I rescued you, so do not glower at me,’ said Michael defensively. ‘No harm was done.’
‘No harm?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘I thought I was going to be skewered.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘Tell me what you heard.’
With ill grace, Bartholomew obliged, repeating the discussion verbatim.
The monk was thoughtful. ‘They must have been discussing the murder of Elvesmere, and were sorry that they had not chosen a more skilled man to do it.’
‘It sounded as if they were referring to a more major spillage to me. Elvesmere’s was not particularly profuse. Perhaps there is a victim we have not found yet. Fulbut, perhaps.’
‘Lord,’ breathed Michael. ‘That is an unpleasant thought.’
The stationer’s shop was always full, and scholars visited it not just to purchase pens, parchment, ink and exemplars – anthologies of the texts they were obliged to learn – but to enjoy its blazing fires, and to chat with friends. Bartholomew and Michael met a number of acquaintances inside, one of whom was Richard, who was with the dentally bereft Uyten from Winwick Hall.
‘I came for sealing wax,’ Richard said. ‘To help Mother with her business.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether he was more irked by the lie or by the fact that Richard expected him to believe it. ‘She has plenty already. You should not need more.’
But Richard’s attention was elsewhere, and Bartholomew saw he was eyeing the stationer’s wife with open lust. Ruth Weasenham did not seem to mind, and there were answering simpers aplenty. Bartholomew groaned, seeing more worry in the offing for Edith.
‘I thought you would have learned your lesson with the Earl of Suffolk’s daughter. You were lucky he did not kill you.’
Richard smirked. ‘It was worth the inconvenience – she was a lovely lass. But so is Ruth, and I am sure that dry old stick of a husband cannot satisfy her.’
‘Please do not antagonise Weasenham,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘He is a powerful man who—’
‘I do not need advice about amours from you,’ interrupted Richard crisply. ‘I have far more experience in such matters.’
Bartholomew was sure he did, and was equally sure he was none the wiser for it. ‘If you are caught, Weasenham will have his revenge by spreading tales that might hurt Edith. He has a vicious tongue. And she has been through enough grief already.’
‘As have I. She is not the only one who misses Father, you know.’ Richard changed the subject abruptly, perhaps to disguise the tears that pricked his eyes. ‘Uyten here tells me that you think my mother’s cakes killed Hemmysby and Ratclyf. Is it true?’
‘No,’ replied Bartholomew, wondering how Uyten had found out. He could only suppose that one of his discussions with Michael had not been as private as they had thought.
‘Then let us hope no one tells her otherwise. She will be mortified. Shall we make an agreement? You say nothing about my dalliance with Ruth, and I say nothing about the fact that my mother is a murder suspect in one of your investigations.’
‘She is nothing of the kind!’ Bartholomew was stunned that Richard should resort to such tactics.
Richard’s expression was unpleasantly calculating. ‘If you say so.’
‘We will be late,’ said Uyten, tugging on his arm. ‘The Guild meeting will start soon.’
‘Not without me.’ Richard’s eyes were still locked on Bartholomew’s. ‘De Stannell hopes for a donation, and is afraid of offending me in any way. You should be proud that I hold such sway in so venerable a body, Uncle. But Uyten is right. I should put in an appearance at the guildhall. Then he and I are going to join the Michaelhouse Choir.’
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Because Goodwyn says it is fun. Of course, we might need a cure for broken ears later.’
He gave a mock salute and threaded his way through the busy shop to the door, leaving Bartholomew staring after him unhappily.
Weasenham was an unattractive individual in his sixties with long oily hair and a sly face, and Bartholomew was not surprised that his vivacious wife – Julitta’s sister, in fact – had taken a shine to a man nearer her own age. It could not be easy to live with the stationer, and Bartholomew recalled that the man’s previous spouse had sought comfort outside the wedding bed, too.
‘The tale is quite true,’ Weasenham was telling Michael, who had cornered him behind his counter. ‘Illesy did steal from the King when he was a clerk in Westminster. I heard it from Heyford, who worked in the same place.’
‘Heyford of St Clement’s?’ asked Michael. ‘The vicar?’
‘The very same. And it was his church that was set alight the other day…’
Michael frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Illesy did it in revenge?’
‘It stands to reason. Heyford thinks the same, which is why he gave a sermon about it today. It had everyone in a frenzy of outrage against Illesy. And against his former employer Potmoor, who doubtless helped him in his evil designs.’
‘You should watch your tongue,’ advised Michael. ‘Or the pair of them might take offence.’
‘Offence!’ sneered Weasenham. ‘What do I care? They have done their worst already.’
‘Why? What has—’
‘I was burgled, Brother! The culprit stole all my best ink and parchment, and several valuable books. And at the beginning of term, too, when demand is always highest.’
‘I doubt Potmoor would be interested in those,’ remarked Bartholomew.
‘This is a University town,’ said Weasenham acidly. ‘There is a huge market for such items. Or do you think thieves only ever take what they want for themselves, not what can be sold?’ He leaned forward suddenly and lowered his voice. ‘But Potmoor has a weak point: Olivia Knyt. They are lovers, and he would do anything for her.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.
‘I have seen them together with my own eyes, kissing and pawing. There is no accounting for taste where passion is concerned.’
He stared so hard at Bartholomew that the physician wondered if he knew about Julitta. Then the stationer nodded a greeting at someone, and the two scholars turned to see Heyford standing behind them. The vicar was full of righteous indignation, and when Michael asked whether he had recovered from his near-incineration, he received a waspish reply.
‘My altar table is destroyed and I burned a finger. And no, I do not want Bartholomew to tend it. He is alleged to commune with the Devil, and I am a priest.’
‘He does nothing of the kind,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if I hear anyone else making that sort of remark, they will find themselves charged with slander. Do you hear me, Weasenham?’
‘Tell him about Illesy, Heyford,’ said Weasenham, unfazed by the threat.
‘That scoundrel! Money went missing from the royal coff
ers when he and I were treasury clerks – this was several years before the plague – and Illesy was the only possible culprit. Rather than risk a scandal by exposing him, he was ordered to leave Westminster.’
‘John Winwick would not have hired a thief as Provost of—’ began Michael.
‘John Winwick does not know,’ interrupted Heyford. ‘The affair was too thoroughly hushed up. I said nothing when Illesy first arrived in our town, and he doubtless thought I had forgotten, but I decided to speak out when his College began getting uppity. In revenge, he and Potmoor sent me strong wine, then set my church alight, intending me to burn inside it.’
‘These are serious allegations,’ warned Michael.
‘Yes,’ agreed Heyford haughtily. ‘And arson and attempted murder are serious crimes.’
Bartholomew and Michael left the shop to find the High Street awash with noise – the Michaelhouse Choir was bawling a lewd tavern song. With a squawk of dismay, Michael raced away to stop them, while passers-by grinned or scowled, depending on how they felt about obscenities being howled in churches. Bartholomew went to the Verius house, where the ditcher had imbibed sufficient alcohol to render himself insensible.
‘I am afraid Surgeon Holm has come to help, though,’ Ylaria whispered apologetically. ‘I told him he was not needed – and that we could not pay – but he insisted on staying anyway.’
Bartholomew was mystified: Holm never did charity work. However, he stopped thinking about the surgeon when he saw that Julitta was there as well. She smiled in a way that made his stomach turn somersaults, and although he struggled to keep his face impassive, he obviously did not succeed, because Holm’s voice was distinctly peevish when he spoke.
‘Thumbs are notoriously difficult to treat, and only surgeons are qualified to approach them with needles and saws. One wrong move, and the humours will be seriously unbalanced, leaving the patient to die an agonising death.’
‘Then you had better be careful,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the oblique reminder that he would be trespassing on Holm’s domain if he operated. It had never happened before – being an indifferent practitioner, Holm was usually only too happy to let someone else try his hand.
‘Will and Verius are friends,’ said Julitta, smiling again. ‘So we thought he should be here.’
‘Are they?’ Bartholomew would not have imagined the suave surgeon demeaning himself by associating with a common layabout like Verius.
‘Not friends,’ countered Holm, shooting her an irritable look. ‘Passing acquaintances. Shall we begin the procedure before he wakes up?’
Bartholomew looked at the slumped, snoring figure on the floor, and thought it would be some time before that happened. He knelt and inspected the wound. There was a deep gash at the base of Verius’s thumb, and it had bled profusely, but the bone was undamaged, and the laceration would heal with a few judiciously placed stitches, although he suspected the ditcher would never enjoy full feeling in it again.
‘He cut it when he was working,’ explained Ylaria, fondly stroking her husband’s hair. ‘People throw sharp things in streams, and do not care that others might be hurt by them.’
Such injuries were an occupational hazard for ditchers. However, Verius’s was very clean, and Bartholomew suspected he had lied to his wife about how he had come by it.
‘I will hold him still, while you irrigate the wound,’ he told Holm.
‘How foolish of me,’ said Holm, backing away. ‘I neglected to bring the ointments to … do what is necessary when something needs irritating.’
‘Irrigating,’ corrected Julitta gently. ‘You meant to say irrigating.’
‘I did say irrigating,’ snapped the surgeon. ‘You will have to do it instead, Bartholomew. Do not worry. I shall not criticise your technique.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew drily. He began to work, although he was obliged several times to stop and show the surgeon yet again how to immobilise the limb. Julitta took over the task in the end, leaving Holm to perch on the table and inspect his fingernails in an attitude of boredom.
‘How are your various investigations going, Matt?’ she asked conversationally.
Bartholomew was not really in a position to concentrate on his answer, with tiny stitches to insert and a woman he loved sitting so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. He gave a mumbled, disjointed report that had her blinking in confusion.
‘The reason I ask is because I saw something odd last night,’ she said, speaking softly so that Ylaria would not hear. ‘And I wondered whether Nerli and Lawrence were among your suspects. If they are, I shall tell you something about them.’
‘Not Lawrence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least, he is not on my list.’
Julitta spoke reluctantly. ‘I like him as well, but I could not sleep last night, and looked out of my window at midnight to see him and Nerli sneaking along in the most furtive manner. Nerli was carrying a sword and looked downright dangerous.’
‘That hurts, damn you!’ said Verius, opening bleary eyes. ‘I shall tell the money soldier, and he will slit your throat.’
‘It is the ale talking,’ said Holm. He flicked his fingers at Ylaria. ‘Block his mouth, woman, lest he blurt something that will later embarrass him.’
‘No,’ countered Bartholomew quickly, when Ylaria stepped forward with a piece of cloth. ‘You might cause him to thrash about if you obstruct his breathing.’
‘But surely we must respect the privacy of his secret thoughts?’ asked Julitta.
‘Bartholomew would never do anything so unprofessional as to repeat what a man says in his cups,’ said Holm, a little too acidly for the physician’s liking.
Verius lapsed into snoring insensibility again, so Bartholomew concentrated on his needlework. Julitta was ready with a clean dressing when he finished, and their fingers touched as she passed it to him. She kept them there rather longer than necessary, and her smile – given so that her husband would not see – tore at his heart. Why had she married a creature like Holm? And why had he not stopped the ceremony and taken her himself, as his friends had urged him to do?
‘The money soldier will see me right,’ mumbled Verius, settling more comfortably on the floor now the operation was over. ‘A fine friend for a poor man.’
‘Perhaps he will say something to embarrass us,’ said Julitta, tearing her eyes away from Bartholomew to look down at the patient. ‘Maybe Will should sing, to drown him out.’
‘That will not be necessary.’ Holm opened the door, allowing a waft of noise to drift in. There was a moment when Bartholomew thought there might be a riot in progress, but then he realised it was the Michaelhouse Choir, turning Tunsted’s beautiful Gloria into something akin to a battle chant.
‘The Fellows of Winwick Hall think they will be the highlight of the ceremony on Tuesday,’ Holm sniggered. ‘But Brother Michael’s rabble will upstage them.’
Verius stirred himself to join in, and Bartholomew was astounded when the ditcher’s voice transpired to be a high, clear tenor that was unexpectedly sweet for so hulking a man.
‘He has the voice of an angel,’ whispered Ylaria, regarding him lovingly.
‘If you want to hear the voice of an angel,’ declared Holm, ‘you should listen to me.’
‘A duet, then?’ asked Julitta eagerly. ‘I should like that very much.’
‘Not here,’ said Holm loftily. ‘I do not perform with drunks.’
As people complained if choir practices went on too long, Michael was obliged to keep them brief, and the bread and ale were being distributed by the time Bartholomew passed St Michael’s Church on his way home. There was a lot of angry yelling inside, and he could hear Michael struggling to keep the peace, so he went to help. The latch stuck, reminding him sharply that Hemmysby still lay in the Stanton Chapel.
Once he had wrestled his way inside, he was greeted by pandemonium. Goodwyn and the new medical students had been put in charge of the bread, but their portions wer
e outrageously uneven, and quarrels had broken out. As soon as Michael quelled one disagreement, another began, and Bartholomew could see from the gleeful expression on Goodwyn’s face that he was delighted by the trouble he had caused.
Uyten was dispensing ale, but so carelessly that a lot spilled, eliciting roars of outrage from several elderly baritones. The lad eyed them challengingly. His thick ears and missing teeth should have warned the ancients that he was no stranger to brawls, but they persisted in haranguing him, oblivious to or careless of the danger. Richard watched from behind a pillar, safely away from the commotion, with an expression on his face that was difficult to read.
‘Help me,’ Bartholomew ordered his nephew sharply, ‘before someone is hurt.’
There was a moment when he thought Richard would refuse, but then he pushed away from the pier and followed Bartholomew to the bread baskets. Goodwyn blanched when he saw his teacher bearing down on him, and stumbled as he was elbowed unceremoniously out of the way. The furious babble quietened once the pieces were more fairly sized, and it calmed further still when a bass called Isnard the bargeman took over the distribution of ale.
‘I need not worry about how to buy refreshments next time,’ said Michael sourly, when the bulk of singers had received their victuals and had trooped meekly away. ‘The fines I am going to impose on your lads should cover the expense nicely.’
Bartholomew leaned against a wall, tired now the fuss was over. Goodwyn had been sent to rinse jugs at the back of the church, which he was doing with ill grace. Aungel, Uyten and the new medical students were helping, although Richard declined to sully his hands, and came to talk to Bartholomew and Michael instead. So did Isnard, who had developed a very proprietary attitude towards the choir. Like most members, he was Bartholomew’s patient; unlike most, he earned a decent living, despite having lost a leg in an accident some years before. He was aware of the importance of free food to his friends, and hated anything that threatened it.
‘I do not want that rabble here next time, Brother,’ he said, stabbing an angry finger towards the students. ‘They lower the tone.’
Richard laughed. ‘It was not them who were scolded for spitting during the Conductus. Besides, I see nothing wrong with having a few Michaelhouse scholars in the Michaelhouse Choir. Without them, the only College member would be the good Brother here.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 22