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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘That is because no other scholar has sufficient talent,’ explained Isnard earnestly. From anyone else, this might have been interpreted as irony, but the bargeman genuinely believed it. Then he sniffed the air suspiciously. ‘What is that reek? Are you wearing perfume, lad?’

  ‘Just a dab,’ replied Richard. ‘I deemed it necessary to mask the stench of the altos. Can you not ask them to change into clean clothes before coming here, Brother?’

  ‘It would do scant good: those are the only ones they own,’ replied Michael. ‘And you used more than a dab – you reek like a whore’s boudoir. Not that I would know, of course. So apply less in future, if you please. I do not want my singers asphyxiated.’

  Before Richard could issue a rejoinder, the monk turned away and began to set the church to rights. Richard was asked to sweep up, but it was not many moments before he took the opportunity to slink away. Goodwyn and his cronies started to follow, but a stern look from Bartholomew made them reconsider. They expressed their resentment by “accidentally” spilling water, and even breaking a brush.

  At last they finished, and Isnard invited Bartholomew and Michael for an evening of riotous fun in the Laughing Pig. They declined – it was a particularly rough tavern, and the domain of townsmen, not scholars.

  ‘I am going to pray for Hemmysby,’ said Michael, when the thump of Isnard’s crutches on the stone floor had faded and the church was quiet again. ‘Will you join me?’

  Bartholomew knew he should work on his lectures, but his wits were muddy with exhaustion, and he doubted he would achieve much that night. He nodded, thinking it might make him feel less guilty about despoiling his colleague’s corpse, and followed Michael into the Stanton Chapel.

  ‘How curious,’ said Michael. ‘Something has been nailed to Hemmysby’s coffin. It was not here earlier. Someone must have done it while my attention was on the music.’

  It was a piece of parchment, and he set about removing it while Bartholomew dropped to his knees next to the casket. All was quiet for a moment, then Michael released a gasp of horror.

  ‘We are being blackmailed, Matt! This message says that if Michaelhouse does not pay twenty marks by noon on Monday – three days’ time – William’s tract will be made public.’

  ‘What tract? The one he and Thelnetham were squabbling about earlier – Linton Hall’s heresy transcribed into his own words? Thelnetham will have burned it by now.’

  Michael was white-faced with shock. ‘He should have burned it, and I should have watched to ensure it was done. William must have tricked him somehow…’

  ‘William may be a fool, but he is not so stupid as to let that sort of thing fall into the wrong hands,’ said Bartholomew comfortingly. ‘Do not worry.’

  Michael brandished the letter in agitation. ‘The author of this has included two pages of the original, so the wrong hands do have it!’

  ‘Then the culprit will be Thelnetham, aiming to give us a fright.’

  ‘This is not his writing,’ snapped Michael, rattled. ‘And you would not be so glib if you had read Linton’s so-called theology. Moreover, William’s foreword contains a lot of scandalous remarks about Gilbertines, Dominicans and John Winwick. If those are made public, Michaelhouse will be finished.’

  Bartholomew took the missive from him. Its tone was coolly menacing, and it was clear that the anonymous sender meant what was said. The writing was a neat roundhand, and although it was the style used by most literate people, there was something about it that was familiar.

  ‘I think I have seen this hand before,’ he mused. ‘But I cannot recall where.’

  ‘Well, try,’ cried Michael. ‘It is important!’

  Bartholomew did, but was forced to shake his head. ‘It is no good. It might have been anywhere. You always have a mass of documents in your office, I marked dozens of essays over the summer, Edith has asked me to read writs regarding Oswald’s business…’

  ‘Unfortunately, there are no other clues. This is cheap parchment that Weasenham sells by the cartload and the ink is unremarkable. We are doomed, Matt! Damn William and his stupid yen to aggravate Thelnetham!’

  Bartholomew was unnerved by the distress with which the Master and other Fellows greeted the news of the anonymous letter, as until then he had been inclined to think Michael was overreacting. The blood drained from Langelee’s face, Suttone slumped on a bench, and Clippesby began to cry. William turned accusingly to Thelnetham, but even he could see the Gilbertine’s shock was genuine, and that the note had nothing to do with him.

  The Franciscan swallowed hard, and his finger shook as he pointed to the pages in Michael’s hand. ‘Those are from my second draft, the one I wrote in my own words. And they are the originals. I recognise the ink blots.’

  Michael scowled at Thelnetham. ‘You agreed to oversee its destruction—’

  ‘Suttone offered to do it instead,’ bleated Thelnetham defensively. ‘I thought he could be trusted.’

  ‘I took it to the kitchen,’ said Suttone unsteadily, ‘to put it on the fire, but we had bread and cheese today, so Agatha had not bothered to light one. She promised to burn it the next time she had a blaze going, so I left it with her. I assumed it would be safe in her domain…’

  Langelee and Michael hurried downstairs, but it was not long before they returned to report that the laundress had been out for much of the day. The kitchen had been unattended for hours.

  ‘God damn it, William!’ cried Langelee. ‘I shall go down in history as the Master whose College was suppressed for second-hand heresy.’

  ‘No one will believe that William speaks for us all,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘I am sure we can distance ourselves from—’

  ‘Two members of Linton Hall tried that defence, and it made no difference,’ interrupted Michael savagely. ‘They were excommunicated regardless.’

  Langelee blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Well, we cannot pay this extortionist, so our only options are to catch him or retrieve the text. Does anyone have any ideas?’

  No one did, and there were angry recriminations against Thelnetham and Suttone for ineptitude, and William for penning such a thing in the first place. Bartholomew expected the Franciscan to react with his usual blustering defiance, and was alarmed when he muttered a sheepish and very uncharacteristic apology, as it meant that the others’ concerns were justified.

  ‘I told you: it was never meant to go outside the College,’ he finished miserably. ‘It was written purely to annoy this stupid Gilbertine. It is his fault that I felt compelled to resort to such measures. And Suttone’s for leaving it in a place where it could be stolen.’

  ‘I wish I had never enrolled in this horrid College,’ spat Thelnetham. ‘It is a disgrace. If William does not see us suppressed, Bartholomew will, for his unseemly fascination with the insides of corpses. No, do not deny it! How else would he know that Hemmysby was poisoned?’

  ‘He did the right thing,’ argued Langelee. ‘Our colleague was murdered, a foul deed that might have gone undetected if Bartholomew had not had the courage to look beyond the obvious.’

  Thelnetham eyed him in distaste. ‘Hemmysby was a thief. He did not warrant such a risk taken on his behalf.’

  ‘He was killed before he could answer those charges,’ Langelee reminded him. ‘Which suggests to me that he was innocent – that someone is using him in the most appalling manner.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Clippesby unhappily. ‘I am sure of it.’

  ‘And now that same villain aims to blackmail us,’ Langelee continued.

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘How do you know the two matters are connected?’

  ‘Because Hemmysby was killed by the person who made off with the Stanton Hutch – the villain who later returned and left “evidence” to make sure he was blamed. Then this same rogue plied his burgling skills a third time to steal William’s tract.’ Langelee turned to Michael. ‘Find him, and we will show the bastard what happens to those who threaten our existence.’

/>   He and Michael began a low-voiced discussion about how this was to be achieved, which left Thelnetham and Suttone free to resume their assault on William. The Franciscan sat in dejected silence, and Bartholomew vacated the conclave when he could bear it no longer. When he reached his room, Goodwyn was there, gleefully telling the other students about the near-riot in the church.

  ‘You should not have meddled with the bread,’ said Aungel disapprovingly. ‘It was cruel.’

  ‘It was fun,’ countered Goodwyn, sniggering at the memory. ‘There were no injuries, though, which was a pity. I could have bandaged them, and charged for my services.’

  ‘You would not have made much from the choir,’ said Aungel. ‘They do not have a penny between them. Why do you think they joined? It is not because they love music.’

  ‘It is not because they can sing, either,’ chortled Goodwyn. ‘My ears still hurt.’

  Unwilling to listen to more, Bartholomew grabbed the scroll he needed for his lecture on Galen’s Tegni, and went to the kitchen to work. He arrived to find Agatha drinking mulled wine with Cynric. She immediately pointed to the table.

  ‘The tract was there. When I returned to find it gone, I assumed Father William had sneaked in and grabbed it, to prevent it from being destroyed.’

  Cynric was tight-lipped with anger that thieves had invaded his College yet again. ‘The culprit must have watched her leave, then crept in when no one was paying attention.’

  ‘Could it have been one of our new students?’ Agatha asked him.

  Cynric shook his head. ‘Master Langelee set them exercises in the hall, to prevent them from attending that heretical debate. He told me to guard the door to stop anyone from leaving. I did as he ordered, and no one escaped, not even to visit the latrine.’

  He and Agatha began a vitriolic analysis of possible suspects, which was essentially a list of people they did not like. Bartholomew tuned out their acrimonious voices, and began to write his commentary. Not long afterwards, Clippesby appeared with Ethel.

  ‘He has taken to coming here since Hemmysby died,’ whispered Agatha, watching him settle in a corner. ‘When he is not in the henhouse. He and Hemmysby were friends, and he misses him.’

  Bartholomew noted with concern that Clippesby was paler than usual, and his eyes were sunken. He was muttering to the bird, which chuntered back. It did look as though they were holding a conversation, and the physician wondered if he would be regaled with it later, along with some clue to the mysteries he and Michael were trying to solve.

  ‘Agatha boxed Goodwyn’s ears today,’ announced Cynric with a smile of enormous satisfaction. ‘Once he had stopped staggering, he pulled out a knife, but thought better of using it on her when she raised her fist a second time.’

  ‘He did what?’ Bartholomew surged to his feet. No student of his was going to draw weapons on College staff and expect it to pass unremarked.

  ‘He was scoffing cheese from the pantry,’ explained Agatha. ‘And when I caught him, he dared me to stop him. He thought himself too old to be belted, but I do not take cheek from students, no matter how grand they consider themselves to be.’

  ‘I am sorry, Agatha,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is my fault for not being here to control him.’

  She grinned. ‘When I told Master Langelee, he offered me a choice of being rid of the boy or having him fined two shillings. I chose the fine, and the Master let me keep it for myself.’

  Bartholomew was disgusted that such a serious offence should be so casually handled, and was about to say so when Cynric changed the subject.

  ‘I took this from your storeroom,’ the book-bearer said, producing a tiny flask containing a bright blue pigment. ‘I hope you do not mind.’

  Bartholomew regarded it blankly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The stuff Goodwyn made when he was experimenting the other day. It was clear at first, but had turned blue by the morning. That means he accidentally stumbled across some powerful magic, and I plan to daub some on all the College’s walls, to keep us safe in the coming riots.’

  ‘What coming riots?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

  ‘The ones that will take place when the townsfolk finally despair of all these matriculands,’ explained Cynric. ‘A few have settled into hostels, but most have declined to put themselves under the University’s control and roam in packs, pestering women, picking fights and generally making a nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘There is only so much we can be expected to endure,’ added Agatha. ‘Folk will snap soon.’

  ‘I will tell Michael.’ Bartholomew held out his hand for the phial. ‘Meanwhile, you had better give that to me. It is almost certainly toxic, and I should have disposed of it already.’

  ‘If it is toxic, then it means the magic is all the stronger,’ said Cynric, pleased. He clutched the little bottle to his chest, and Bartholomew knew he was not going to relinquish it without a fight – which was not something the physician was fool enough to attempt. ‘And that is a good thing for us.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Bartholomew worked in the kitchen until Agatha doused the lamp, obliging him to return to his own quarters. His students were asleep, and unwilling to wake them by lighting a candle, he retreated to the storeroom, where he read until his eyes burned with fatigue. When he closed them for a moment he fell into a deep drowse, and was difficult to wake when Michael came to collect him in the small hours. After several moments of futile shoulder-shaking and increasingly frustrated hisses, the monk solved the problem with a bucket of cold water.

  ‘What?’ Bartholomew demanded groggily, wiping the drops from his face. ‘Is someone ill?’

  ‘If they were, I would not want you tending them,’ whispered the monk waspishly. ‘I have never known a man sink so deeply into repose. You were smiling. Was it a pleasant dream?’

  It had been. Julitta was in it, and so was Richard, back when he had been a sunny, likeable lad of fifteen. Matilde had made an appearance, too, armed with a heavy purse and announcing her intention to marry Bartholomew that afternoon. Annoyingly, Michael had hurled his water just as Richard was about to divulge a way to wed her and still keep Julitta.

  ‘What do you want, Brother? It is the middle of the night.’

  ‘Yes, and we have work to do. Surely you have not forgotten?’

  Bartholomew struggled to rally his sluggish wits. ‘What work?’

  ‘Ratclyf. And depending on what you find, perhaps Elvesmere and Knyt, too.’

  Bartholomew’s mind snapped into focus. ‘No, and I have already explained why. Call it superstitious nonsense if you will, but it felt very wrong.’

  Michael scrubbed at his face, and Bartholomew noticed again how weary his friend looked. ‘You have allowed your imagination to run riot because Hemmysby was a friend. Well, Ratclyf was not, and as I said yesterday, your second victim should be easier than the first. Langelee agrees. Something very sinister is unfolding, and unless we have the full facts we may never catch the villain who has set it in motion.’

  ‘But what if people find out?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

  ‘No one will,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘We shall take precautions. Besides, think of your sister and her beloved Oswald. She will certainly want to know if there is a poisoner at large. You must do it for her sake.’

  Bartholomew scowled: it was unfair to use Edith as a lever. ‘We will never know what happened to Oswald, regardless. Even if you found someone to dissect him – and I can tell you now that it will not be me – he has been in the ground too long.’

  ‘Please, Matt. I understand your reluctance, believe me. I even share it – I would much rather be asleep than helping you defile corpses – but we have no choice. We need answers.’

  ‘There must be another way to get them.’

  ‘Langelee and I sat for hours trying to think of one. Nothing came to mind.’

  ‘I shall be decried as a warlock for certain,’ grumbled Bartholomew.

  ‘We have until Mo
nday before the blackmailer makes good on his threat,’ Michael went on, ‘which means we have until Monday to catch him. To do that, we need to know how many victims he has claimed, because Langelee is right – he and the poisoner are one and the same. Besides, now you know what to look for, you will use a lighter hand than you did on Hemmysby.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It depends on the—’

  ‘No details, please,’ interrupted Michael. ‘Now are you coming or not?’

  Profoundly unhappy, Bartholomew donned his cloak and followed Michael to the gate. Cynric was waiting there, having sent the porter on some spurious errand so that the three of them could leave the College unseen.

  ‘Follow me and do everything I say,’ he ordered. ‘I will keep you from prying eyes.’

  He did his best, but neither scholar was very good at creeping around in the pitch black. They tripped over unseen obstacles, Michael squawked when his cloak caught on a shoe-scraper, and Bartholomew dropped his medical bag. By the time they reached the church, Cynric was thoroughly exasperated. He led them through the graveyard, shoving them rather roughly into the shadows when a group of matriculands staggered noisily past. Several women were with them, including two of the town’s less discerning prostitutes.

  ‘I will not allow this sort of thing once term starts,’ vowed Michael. ‘I shall recruit more beadles, and we will soon have this riotous behaviour under control.’

  ‘I doubt it, Brother,’ said Cynric. ‘If they cannot find a College or a hostel, they will fall under de Stannell’s jurisdiction. And he is useless.’

  ‘Dick Tulyet will not be gone for ever,’ said Michael curtly, disliking the reminder that his authority was not absolute. ‘He will support what I am trying to do.’

  ‘Then let us hope he does not return too late,’ said Cynric darkly.

  He led them to the vestry door, and ordered them to hide behind a buttress while he reconnoitred the church and its environs. He took so long that Michael began to whisper, to stop himself from dwelling on the unpleasant task that awaited them within.