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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘It will not be made public,’ vowed Langelee. ‘We will outwit this villain, and stop him from harming us. We must.’

  ‘You can try,’ said Thelnetham. ‘But I suspect he is cleverer than you, so I plan to transfer to another College as soon as one offers me a place. I shall announce my availability at the Saturday Sermon today. It is my turn to preach, and—’

  ‘No!’ barked Langelee with such anger that Thelnetham started in surprise. ‘You will not make self-serving declarations on the day of Hemmysby’s burial. And there will be no Saturday Sermon either, out of respect for him. We shall have it on Monday instead.’

  Thus admonished, Thelnetham fell silent. Suttone returned to say that Clippesby’s room was empty, so Bartholomew went to see whether the Dominican was with the hens in the orchard.

  Michaelhouse’s poultry led enchanted lives. High walls and secure gates meant they were safe from foxes, thieves and any other predator that might take a fancy to their overfed little bodies, while their coop was a veritable palace, built by a student who had wanted to be a master carpenter. It was not only sturdy, rainproof and airy, but boasted some of the best wood-carvings in Cambridge. Clippesby kept it spotless, and Bartholomew often thought that Ethel and her flock lived in greater comfort than the Fellows.

  ‘Clippesby?’ he called as he approached. ‘John?’

  He was somewhat surprised to see the Dominican emerge through the pop-hole. He had expected him to be talking to the birds, or perhaps letting them out for the day, but he had certainly not anticipated that he might have crawled into the coop with them.

  ‘Is it time for church?’ yawned Clippesby. ‘I did not hear the bell. I must have been in a very deep slumber.’

  ‘You slept in there?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding him uneasily.

  ‘Ethel misses Hemmysby,’ explained the Dominican. ‘So I decided to keep her company.’

  ‘Please do not tell Thelnetham,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘We would never hear the end of it.’

  ‘Yes, he has grown opinionated of late. Especially about Hemmysby, who was not a thief.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, seeing tears fill the gentle Dominican’s eyes. ‘But Michael will find the villain who wants us to think so.’

  Clippesby bent to scoop up Ethel, who was lurking in the hope of treats. ‘He said yesterday that it is the same person who aims to blackmail us over William’s nasty tract.’

  ‘Yes – the culprit has broken in three times now. Once to steal the Stanton Hutch, once to plant the Cup and the deeds in Hemmysby’s room, and once to take William’s essay. Our security has never been very tight, so it cannot have been difficult.’

  ‘Ethel heard Thelnetham’s response when William gave him that tract to read,’ said Clippesby, kissing the chicken tenderly on the head. ‘As did any number of students. He read a few pages in silence, then began to screech his rage and horror.’

  ‘Well, William did say he wrote it with that specific end in mind.’

  ‘The students must have gossiped about the incident outside the College, where the blackmailer overheard. It explains how he knew what to come here and take. The tract is a horrible piece, Matt – not just the heresy, but the hurtful remarks about other Orders and John Winwick. Our colleagues are right to fear what will happen if it is ever released.’

  ‘Then let us hope that Michael can prevent it.’

  Clippesby nodded unhappily, and turned to another depressing subject. ‘How is your sister? I cannot imagine Richard is much comfort to her, given the company he keeps – Goodwyn, Uyten, some of the unruliest matriculands. The Bene’t hedgehog tells me that there are an unusually high number from London this year, which is why Richard knows so many of them. She wonders whether he told them to come and try their luck at Winwick Hall.’

  ‘Then I hope she is wrong,’ said Bartholomew fervently.

  ‘The swans predict trouble for Tuesday,’ Clippesby went on. ‘The town resents lavish displays of grandeur, and they fear an attack on our more ostentatious foundations – King’s Hall, Winwick and St Mary the Great.’

  ‘Michael heard that rumour, too. Let us trust that it is groundless.’

  ‘Yes, especially if the Keeper of the Privy Seal is here to witness it. It would be a pity if he told the King that we are as bad as Oxford for quarrels and riots.’

  They walked to the yard, Bartholomew brushing telltale wood shavings from Clippesby as they went, lest Thelnetham guessed what the Dominican had been doing. They arrived to find the other Fellows talking in low, worried voices, while the students waited by the gate.

  ‘I say we charge William the twenty marks,’ Thelnetham was hissing. ‘It is his scribbling that caused the trouble. And afterwards, he should do the decent thing and resign. Extortionists never stop with one payment, and we do not want any more demands.’

  ‘But I do not have twenty marks,’ snapped William. ‘And you should accept some of the blame anyway. If you were not such an ignorant pig, I would not have felt obliged to put pen to parchment in the first place.’

  ‘Do not quarrel,’ said Clippesby, releasing Ethel so she flapped towards them. Both Gilbertine and Franciscan recoiled in alarm. ‘It is unbecoming for men in holy orders.’

  ‘And you should resign, too,’ snarled Thelnetham. ‘Indeed, you all should. You are either bigots, lunatics, gluttons, warlocks or heretics. Our founder must be turning in his grave!’

  ‘He will turn even faster if you do not catch this blackmailer,’ said Langelee to Michael. ‘What did you discover in St Mary the Great last night?’

  Michael launched into the tale that he and Cynric had devised, which made Bartholomew look away, lest his more observant colleagues should detect his unease with it. ‘So the rogue has claimed at least four victims,’ he concluded. ‘Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere and Ratclyf. Not to mention trying to extort money from us and stealing our hutch.’

  ‘Then you must do all you can to catch him, Brother,’ said William. ‘Because I am not giving Hemmysby’s killer twenty marks. Even if I did have it to spare.’

  The discussion and Clippesby’s sojourn in the henhouse meant they were late, so Langelee led his procession up St Michael’s Lane at a rapid clip. They were just crossing the High Street when they ran into a group of men who, judging from their bleary eyes and ale-scented breath, had spent the night in a tavern. They were led by Hugo Potmoor, and comprised an odd combination of his father’s henchmen and matriculands. Bartholomew was dismayed to see Richard among them. His nephew’s was not the only presence to excite comment.

  ‘There is Surgeon Holm,’ remarked Michael. ‘What is he doing in such unsavoury company?’

  ‘He and Hugo are friends,’ explained Clippesby. ‘The sparrows tell me they are always together, and are frequent visitors to each other’s homes.’

  ‘That does not surprise me,’ said Thelnetham. ‘Holm is a villain, so of course he gravitates towards men of similar mien.’ He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant glance. ‘And that includes your nephew, I am sorry to say.’

  ‘Richard is more fool than villain,’ said Langelee. ‘Tell him to go home before anyone sees him, Bartholomew. He will bring disgrace to your family if he is spotted cavorting with this horde.’

  Chagrined that even the hedonistic Master deplored his kinsman’s choice of company, Bartholomew went to do as he was told.

  ‘I suppose you have come to recommend that I find myself some more suitable friends,’ slurred Richard. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I like these. So you can mind your own business.’

  Bartholomew stared at him, wondering what had happened to the likeable, ebullient boy he had known and loved. Sensing a quarrel in the making, Richard’s companions came to form a semicircle at his back, sniggering and jostling.

  ‘Actually, I came to pass on Langelee’s advice,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘That if you must act like a halfwit, do it somewhere other than the High Street.’

  ‘I am touched by your concern.’ Richard waved a car
eless hand, which caused him to stagger. ‘But it is too early for anyone important to be awake, so you and Langelee need not worry.’

  Hugo flung a meaty arm around his shoulders. ‘On the contrary, your reputation will be enhanced. After all, Holm and I are influential members of the Guild of Saints.’

  Richard smiled challengingly at his uncle. ‘You will soon get used to me living here again. And I shall be your equal soon – a University Fellow, no less. Now I see what Cambridge has to offer, I wonder why I ever left.’

  ‘The Brazen George awaits!’ cried Hugo suddenly. ‘And I have a fierce thirst. The last one through the door buys the first drinks.’

  There was a concerted lurch towards the tavern, where their braying laughter and drunken hoots drew disapproving glances from scholars and townsmen alike. Richard lost his footing as he tried to join them, and Holm and Hugo made heavy work of pulling him to his feet. Hating to see him make such a spectacle of himself, Bartholomew went to help.

  ‘Perhaps you should just go home, Richard,’ he said quietly. ‘More ale will—’

  ‘Do not tell him what to do,’ interrupted Hugo belligerently. ‘It is a good thing you raised my father from the dead or I would trounce you for your audacity.’

  ‘Trounce him anyway,’ suggested Holm. ‘It might make him less attractive to my wife.’

  Hugo laughed. ‘It will take a lot more than a battered face to lop your cuckold’s horns! Just as it will take more than death to lop those of a certain deceased Secretary.’

  Holm blinked as he struggled to understand. ‘Do you mean Olivia Knyt? She had a lover?’

  ‘Yes – my father. She bought bryony root to cure her husband’s fever, but she used it improperly and he died. Which means she is now free to cavort openly, and even remarry if she chooses. Bryony. It sounds so innocent and yet … Perhaps you should buy some for Julitta, Will. That would put an end to her brazen wantonness.’

  Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. ‘You would not—’

  ‘Julitta is not wanton,’ said Holm, eyes narrowed. ‘She loves me, and me alone. Come, Hugo. We have better things to do than bandy words with the man who swoons over my wife.’

  They sauntered away arm in arm, leaving Bartholomew staring after them in mute horror, appalled that his affection for Julitta might have put her in danger. Yet Holm had seemed equally averse to poisoning his wife. Did that mean he did harbour some feeling for her, and she was safe from harm? But what if—

  ‘You should stay away from them,’ advised Richard. Bartholomew had forgotten him, and jumped when his nephew spoke at his side. ‘Especially Hugo. I enjoy his company, but he can be … disagreeable to people he dislikes.’

  ‘I am sure he can. He takes after his father.’

  ‘You should not have done it.’ Richard grabbed Bartholomew’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘Raised Potmoor from the dead, I mean. It has turned a lot of people against you. You should have kept your smelling salts in your bag. You did not have to use them on him.’

  ‘Of course I did! I took an oath to help those in need.’

  ‘An oath,’ mused Richard. ‘I am good at finding loopholes in those, and it is obvious that you should renounce that one. I shall want something in return, of course.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, not bothering to point out that he had no intention of reneging on a vow, especially one in which he believed with all his heart.

  ‘That you stay out of my affairs. I know what I am doing with … I know what I am doing.’

  ‘Doing with whom?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Weasenham’s wife? If he catches you, he will destroy you with gossip. He has done it before.’

  ‘If he tries, I will sue him. There is no more effective weapon than the law, and I am an expert at wielding it. And I am serious about what I said – do not meddle in my affairs.’

  Richard and his friends were not the only ones worse for wear after a night of drinking. So was Noll Verius, who had collapsed in a heap in St Michael’s churchyard. Isnard was with him, but although the bargeman was adept at compensating for the loss of his leg, carrying inebriated ditchers was well past what he could manage.

  ‘Help me, Doctor,’ he called. ‘His wife will be worried, and I would not have her distressed.’

  Bartholomew should have refused and gone to church, but he liked Ylaria, so he obligingly hefted Verius across his shoulder.

  ‘You are stronger than you look,’ remarked Isnard, swinging along beside him on his crutches. ‘I suppose you are used to lugging your colleagues around after Michaelhouse feasts.’

  Bartholomew smiled ruefully, thinking it had been a long time since the College had been able to treat its members to that sort of extravagance. He wondered whether it ever would again.

  ‘Will you tell Brother Michael that me and the other basses had nothing to do with the trouble at the Laughing Pig last night?’ Isnard went on. ‘I should not like him to think badly of us. Or worse, tell us off in front of the whole choir.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘We were sitting quietly, bemoaning the fact that the Guild of Saints will no longer help needy widows, when your nephew and his boisterous friends arrived. We ignored them at first, but then we heard Richard say that he had voted against the widows. Well, tempers flared and punches were thrown, although not at him, more is the pity.’

  ‘Agatha told me about Richard’s role in that ballot. I will speak to him.’

  ‘Do not bother. He will not listen, and you will be wasting your breath. And do not worry your sister with it either. She is a good lady, and must be heartbroken to see what he has become.’

  They arrived at Verius’s house, where it took both of them to manoeuvre the ditcher through the door. Ylaria was relieved to have her husband home, and clucked around him like a mother hen.

  ‘He was celebrating,’ explained Isnard. ‘Brother Michael has given him the solo in the Recordare. Michael has a good ear for an angelic voice, which is why he lets me lead the basses, of course. He appreciates my rich tones.’

  Bartholomew replaced the filthy bandage on the ditcher’s thumb and left, but he had not taken many steps before he was hailed by Rougham, who fell into step at his side. The Gonville medicus was in a foul mood, because the Guild of Saints had declined to make its usual yearly donation towards his College chapel. Bartholomew, eager for an excuse to escape the tirade, was glad when he spotted Eyer on the other side of the road.

  Rougham followed him to where Eyer was talking to a squat, fierce-faced physician named Nigellus de Thornton, who practised in the nearby village of Barnwell. Nigellus was livid, and the apothecary was trying to calm him.

  ‘Have you heard?’ Nigellus snarled, making Bartholomew and Rougham flinch at the fury in his voice. ‘What Winwick Hall has done to me?’

  ‘No,’ replied Rougham. ‘But I warrant it will be something nasty. The Keeper of the Privy Seal should have foisted his vile foundation on Oxford instead. We do not want it here.’

  ‘Illesy and his Fellows have rejected my application to teach,’ raged Nigellus. ‘How dare they! I was a physician before most of them were born, and they should have welcomed me with open arms. But they say they have Lawrence, and there is no need for another medicus.’

  ‘You should have asked me before submitting yourself to their insults,’ said Rougham. ‘I could have told you that they are only interested in recruiting lawyers. Lawrence is unusual in that he specialises in both subjects, but—’

  ‘They should have made an exception for me,’ blazed Nigellus. ‘But I will show them! I have been offered a place in Zachary Hostel, and they will kick themselves when they see how many students I attract.’

  ‘He was not rejected because he cannot teach law,’ confided Eyer, when the enraged medicus had stamped away, ‘but because he is not rich enough. Winwick only wants men who can make massive donations to its coffers. I considered applying myself until I realised how much it costs.’

  ‘I imagine you can affo
rd it.’ Rougham glanced pointedly towards Eyer’s handsome shop. ‘You are a member of the Guild of Saints, and they do not admit paupers.’

  Eyer winced. ‘Yes, but I am thinking of resigning. I would rather my hard-earned shillings went to relieve beggars, orphans and widows, not to buy fancy cutlery for Winwick Hall.’

  ‘I do not see you as an educator anyway,’ said Rougham. ‘You told me only yesterday that you dislike most of the young men who are applying for places to study here this year.’

  ‘I would make a very good scholar,’ objected Eyer indignantly. ‘Much better than most of the masters I studied under.’

  ‘You had more than one?’ asked Rougham, surprised. ‘I thought apprentices in the remedy business tended to stick with the same mentor for the whole of their training.’

  ‘I am different,’ retorted Eyer, the shortness of his response making it clear that the discussion was over. Bartholomew was puzzled – most craftsmen were usually only too happy to talk about the painstaking process of learning their trade. Then Eyer forced a smile. ‘Are you hungry? I am having crispy fried earthworms and seagull gizzards for breakfast. You are welcome to join me.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance, wondering if he seriously expected such an invitation to be accepted. The earnest expression on Eyer’s face made it abundantly clear that he did.

  ‘I am obliged to break my fast in College,’ said Rougham, backing away quickly. ‘Attendance at meals is obligatory in Gonville, so you must excuse me.’

  ‘It is obligatory in Michaelhouse, too,’ said Bartholomew, when Eyer turned hopeful eyes in his direction. He found himself thinking that even Agatha did not serve such unappealing fare, although that might change if the Stanton Hutch was not recovered.

  Eyer sighed. ‘Pity. Some intelligent company would have been welcome. But I had better return to my shop before my apprentices set it alight. They are lively lads and I love them dearly, but they are inclined to be wild.’

  ‘So are my new students,’ said Bartholomew ruefully. ‘Aungel told you about their foolish experiments with urine, I believe?’