Edith was so unsettled by her discoveries that it took a while to soothe her, and by the time he had succeeded, it did not seem appropriate to burden her with his own problems. He left her in a more quiescent state, although his own mind churned with uncertainty and torment. He collected Michael from the church, and they walked towards Winwick in silence. Bartholomew was so distracted by his concerns that he did not see Eyer until he had collided with him.
‘Ouch!’ The apothecary hopped about on one foot, his pink face twisted in pain. ‘Watch where you are going, Matt! Did you not hear me calling?’
‘Sorry.’ Here was one man Bartholomew could not afford to annoy: the health of the town’s poor would depend on his largesse until Michaelhouse was able to pay its Fellows’ stipends. Assuming the College was not dissolved in the interim, of course. ‘Did you want me for something?’
‘Only to invite you to try some of my mushroom wine. I added a dead squirrel to enhance fermentation, and I should like your opinion on the result.’
‘Gracious,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how to refuse without causing offence.
‘I appreciate that you will be busy with term starting tomorrow,’ Eyer went on, ‘so come next week, when things are quieter. I invited Bon, too. Many folk consider him peevish and unfriendly, but he is charm itself when you come to know him. Unlike his Winwick colleagues.’
‘Oh?’ probed Michael keenly. ‘You do not like Illesy, Lawrence and Nerli?’
‘Not really. Especially Lawrence. And there are rumours about all three – that they are closer than they should be to Potmoor, and that they aid him in his depredations.’
‘I cannot see Lawrence climbing through windows to rob wealthy homes,’ said Bartholomew, disliking the apothecary’s penchant for gossip and unfounded speculation.
Eyer regarded him soberly. ‘Perhaps not, but he is often out at night. Not visiting patients as he would have us believe, but on other business, about which he lies whenever I raise the subject. Nerli is often with him, and I do not believe it is for company as they claim. Meanwhile, Potmoor would be behind bars were it not for Illesy’s cunning legal advice.’
‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, when the apothecary had hurried away on an errand of mercy to Olivia Knyt, who was suffering from stomach cramps. ‘Potmoor would be in my cells if Illesy had not been there to supply fictitious alibis.’
‘He is not right about Lawrence, though.’ Bartholomew’s stomach lurched suddenly when the bells of St Mary the Great rang for sext. ‘It is noon, Brother! The extortionist will be waiting for his twenty marks.’
‘Forget about him. Langelee dealt with several matters of this nature when he worked for the Archbishop, and he says he has a plan. We must trust him to carry it out while we attack the villain on another front – by laying hold of his helpmeet Jekelyn.’
Winwick’s gates were off their hinges again when they arrived. There was no sign of the porter, so Bartholomew and Michael walked into the College unchallenged. Inside, they were greeted by uproar, and soon learned why. Illesy and his Fellows had gone to St Mary the Great to prepare for Michaelhouse’s ‘Saturday’ Sermon; unsupervised, the students had run riot.
There were at least sixty of them in the yard, watching a boxing match between servants. Wine was being swigged from flasks, bets were being placed, and there was a lot of yelling and cheering. Others were hanging out of the dormitory windows or lounging in corners to mutter in low voices. At least a dozen Frail Sisters were there, surrounded by pawing admirers.
‘It is more like a brothel than a College,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘The other foundations are right to voice their reservations about it. Illesy will have to make adjustments to discipline after tomorrow, or I shall petition for the place to be closed down.’
There was a sudden clatter on the far side of the yard. A tile had slipped from the roof, and the muddle of shards already on the ground indicated it was not the first time this had happened.
‘The builders cut corners in the race to finish Winwick by the beginning of term,’ said Bartholomew, squinting up at it. ‘Which means much of the work is shoddy. The roof should not be falling to pieces so soon, and nor should the plaster be flaking off the walls.’
‘A substandard hall is not Winwick’s only problem,’ said Michael. ‘Tynkell told me that ninety new students have been accepted, more than all the other Colleges put together. They have been picked for their wealth, not for academic merit, so they will be all but impossible to teach.’
‘I cannot see the founder being impressed when he arrives tomorrow. Perhaps he will have second thoughts and withdraw his patronage.’ Bartholomew gestured at the noisy throng. ‘After all, he will not want this sort of lout braying that he was educated at Winwick Hall.’
‘What do you want?’ came a belligerent voice from behind them. They turned to see one of the matriculands who had been with Uyten in the King’s Head the previous night. He was older than most new students, and looked more like a soldier than a budding lawyer.
Michael regarded him coolly, disliking the lack of deference. ‘And who are you, pray?’
‘Sir Joshua Hardwell, not that it is any of your affair.’
‘Who is in charge while the Fellows are out?’ Michael kept his temper with difficulty.
‘I am,’ replied Hardwell. ‘But do not think you can fine us for drinking and gambling, because we will not be bound by your rules until tomorrow. And perhaps not even then. We all hail from important families, and we are not men to be restrained by silly strictures.’
‘We shall see,’ said Michael, his confident tone suggesting that Winwick would lose that particular battle. ‘But we came to speak to Jekelyn, not you. Where is he?’
‘There,’ said Bartholomew, stabbing a finger towards the porter, who was sneaking towards the gates, resplendent in a green cloak with black edging. When he saw he had been spotted, an expression of alarm suffused Jekelyn’s face. He whipped around and aimed for the hall instead.
‘After him, Matt!’ cried Michael. ‘I shall be right behind you.’
Bartholomew darted towards the hall, swearing under his breath when he tripped over a carpenter. He had only just regained his balance when he heard a door slam at the back of the building. He hared towards it, and flung it open to see that it led to an orchard. Jekelyn was jigging through the trees, making for a gate at the far end, at which point he would disappear into the tangle of lanes that emptied on to the Market Square.
Bartholomew tore after him, but arrived to find the gate still closed – the porter had not yet gone through it. He stood still, listening intently. All he could hear was the students’ cheering. There was a snap behind him as a twig broke underfoot. He spun around quickly, but not quite fast enough. A cudgel swung towards him, and although he managed to throw up an arm to protect his head, the blow sent him flying. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his body.
CHAPTER 14
Bartholomew was not sure how long it was before his wits stopped spinning, but when they did, he was lying on the ground with Michael leaning anxiously over him.
‘Thank God!’ breathed the monk, crossing himself. ‘For one dreadful moment I thought I was going to have to solve all these mysteries by myself.’
‘Thank you for your concern.’ Bartholomew winced as he sat up. ‘Where is Jekelyn?’
‘Gone. I could have followed, but I did not like to leave you here unattended.’ Michael hauled him to his feet. ‘We had better return to Michaelhouse, or the Saturday Sermon will have started and Langelee will have invited Illesy and his Fellows into our home for nothing.’
They left Winwick through the back gate, and hurried through streets that pulsed with tension, eventually reaching Michaelhouse to find it transformed. The yard had been swept, the gates washed, and the hall given a thorough scour, so it smelled clean and fresh. What little silver the College still possessed had been polished and placed on display, and the woodwork gleamed. William and Su
ttone had begged platters of delicacies from their friaries, while Thelnetham had borrowed money for wine. Deynman the Librarian had removed all the books from their chests and set them on shelves, and Agatha had broken out the ceremonial linen.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, deliberately spilling a cup of claret, just as the Winwick men were shown in, ‘but never mind. If the stain does not come out, we shall throw this tablecloth away and buy another. Money is no object to us. Is it, Master?’
‘Not at all,’ declared Langelee. His eyes were puffy, as though he had been crying. Bartholomew was alarmed. What had happened to drive the manly Master to tears? ‘We older Colleges are rolling in it, and it is only the new ones that must rely on loans from town charities.’
‘We are proud of our association with the Guild of Saints,’ said Illesy icily. ‘Indeed, we have invited them here today. It is the first time we have been asked to take part in a disputation with another College, and it is only right that they should witness our victory.’
Langelee gaped at him. ‘I think you will find that it is my privilege to issue invitations to events in my own home.’
Bon smiled in his approximate direction. ‘Yes, but we knew you would not object. You must have great respect for our talents or you would not have solicited our presence here today.’
‘But the Guild has females in it!’ cried Thelnetham, appalled. ‘You know – women! And we do not allow those on the premises.’
‘I am sure you can make an exception just this once,’ said Illesy. ‘Ah! Here they come now.’
There was a commotion on the stairs, and Edith and Julitta walked in. Thelnetham crossed himself in abject horror, although the other Fellows were more concerned with who was on their heels. It was Potmoor, with Walter scurrying behind him. The porter was wringing his hands, and his lugubrious face was full of dismay and agitation.
‘I tried to keep him out,’ he wailed to Langelee. ‘But he looked at me, and the next thing I knew, he was across the threshold.’
Hugo and Holm were next, their heads inappropriately close as they sniggered at some private joke; Bartholomew bristled at the open insult to Julitta. De Stannell followed them, wearing the ceremonial robes of Deputy Sheriff, although had had evidently taken a tumble from his horse en route, as they were stained with muck from the road. Behind him was Meryfeld, grinning his amusement at the sight, with Eyer chatting amiably at his side.
‘Winwick did this on purpose,’ Langelee hissed furiously, as other guests entered in their wake and began to avail themselves of the refreshments. ‘They knew we would not expect to cater for so many, and want to humiliate us in front of all these dignitaries.’
‘Then they will not succeed,’ vowed Thelnetham. ‘I shall send to the Gilbertine Priory for more wine, even if it means I spend the rest of the year paying off the debt. I may not intend to stay here much longer, but I will not see our noses rubbed in the dirt.’
‘The Carmelites will help, too,’ declared Suttone, while the other Fellows made similar promises. Bartholomew had no Order to raid, but help came in the form of Edith, who whispered that she had apprentices waiting with edible offerings in the yard below.
‘Julitta warned me,’ she confided. ‘She does not want Michaelhouse embarrassed.’
‘No,’ agreed Julitta. ‘I do not like most of the Winwick men. Illesy is oily, Nerli is sinister, and Lawrence makes me sick with his false sweetness. Bon may be bad-tempered and acid-tongued, but I admire his honesty. He has been given the task of recruiting more masters, so I hope he picks some who are more pleasant than the current horde.’
Bartholomew wondered whether Richard would be among their number. Thoughts of his nephew reminded him of their last conversation, but before he could mention the prospect of Julitta annulling her unsatisfactory union with Holm, Edith spoke.
‘Richard told me a few moments ago that he has invited Goodwyn to stay. I would not mind, but Goodwyn promptly spouted a lot of lies about you – how you cheated him of his fees, how you stole a valuable hutch to buy medicine, how you itch to raise more felons from the dead…’
‘Perhaps the tale about William seeing the Dominican Prior riding across the sky with the Devil on his back originated with him, too,’ added Julitta. ‘It sounds like the kind of spiteful nonsense Goodwyn would invent.’
Bartholomew regarded her in horror. ‘What?’
‘Weasenham the stationer told me,’ replied Julitta. ‘But do not worry. I know it is a malicious fiction, and so will anyone else who matters. William would never have written such vile nonsense and given it to the scribes to copy. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Unwell,’ replied Bartholomew, looking away so he would not have to meet her eyes. The truth was that Langelee did not trust William to behave, so the Franciscan had been ordered to stay in his room until the debate was over.
‘Perhaps it is the shock of hearing what has been penned in his name,’ suggested Edith. ‘And there is more to come, apparently. Weasenham’s scribes were only given the first two pages, but have been informed that the finished tract comprises at least thirty more. Poor William! He must be mortified – terrified of what will be attributed to him next.’
‘Did these two pages mention apostolic poverty?’ asked Bartholomew nervously.
‘No, just the tale about Prior Morden,’ replied Edith. ‘The scribes are delighted by the prospect of copying more. They say theology has become boringly conventional since Linton Hall in Oxford got into trouble for its radical opinions.’
So the blackmailer had issued a warning, thought Bartholomew numbly: pay up or else. Clearly, whatever plan Langelee had devised to deal with the situation had been unsuccessful.
‘How are your investigations?’ asked Julitta, breaking into his tumbling thoughts. ‘Are you close to catching whoever murdered Hemmysby, Knyt and the others?’
‘Not really,’ replied Bartholomew, although he was barely aware of speaking. What would happen to Michaelhouse now? Would the Dominicans sue for defamation? Morden was a reasonable man, but he could not be expected to ignore that sort of insult. If he did, credulous people might assume the tale was true.
‘I wish he was not here,’ said Edith, indicating Potmoor with a nod of her head. ‘I find it difficult to be in the same room as him. Indeed, I declined the invitation to come today, which is why I did not mention it when you visited, Matt. But Julitta persuaded me to change my mind.’
‘I thought it would do her good,’ explained Julitta. ‘She spends far too much time poring over documents and fretting over her son these days. It is hardly healthy.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew, grateful to her for enticing his sister out, even if it was only to a dull debate and some mediocre refreshments.
‘Yet she is right about Potmoor,’ Julitta went on. ‘It would not surprise me if he poisoned all those men, perhaps to ensure that they do not stand witness against him for robbing half the town. And look at how he smirks and simpers with Nerli and Lawrence.’
‘Nerli is exactly the kind of person I would expect Potmoor to befriend,’ said Edith sourly. ‘He is sinister and vicious, like the henchmen Potmoor employs. Lawrence is nice, though.’
Julitta’s expression was troubled. ‘Then why do I always feel that is what he wants me to think – that I am being manipulated with benign smiles and grandfatherly goodness?’
Eventually they moved away to talk to Clippesby, leaving Bartholomew to fret about the blackmailer’s mischief, Edith’s pallor and how to obtain a declaration of nullity. He was not left alone for long. Langelee approached, rubbing his swollen eyes.
‘Have you heard that the extortionist has struck?’ he spat angrily. ‘The bastard! After I gave him ten marks, too.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You paid him? What with?’
‘A loan from your sister. Do not glare at me! I did not tell her why I needed the money.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘You should not have done it! And certainly not without Michael and
me there to help you lay hold of him when he came to collect.’
Langelee scowled. ‘I thought I could lay hold of him. After all, I outwitted several demands of this nature when I worked for the Archbishop. I took Walter and William with me, but he threw sand in my face, and was off before the other two could grab him.’
Bartholomew turned the Master’s head to the light, to examine his eyes. ‘So he avenged himself with the tale about Morden, and now we owe Edith ten marks into the bargain.’
‘Worse,’ said Langelee through gritted teeth. ‘Another note arrived a few moments ago. The rogue has issued a second demand.’
He held it out. Again, the clerkly writing was familiar, but Bartholomew still could not place it. His heart sank when he read that if fifty marks were not left at a particular tomb near the Round Church by midnight, more of William’s tract would be made public.
‘You have made the situation worse by attempting trickery,’ he said accusingly. ‘He will be on his guard now, and we may never catch him. Has Michael seen this?’
‘No – he has gone to question Weasenham’s scribes. Ah! Here he comes now.’
When he read the blackmailer’s latest communiqué, the monk’s expression turned more grim than ever. ‘William’s pages were left at the shop anonymously, along with payment for ten copies to be made,’ he reported tersely. ‘Weasenham showed me the originals. They are so obviously William’s that we will never deny it convincingly.’
‘It was just the bit about Prior Morden?’ asked Langelee anxiously.
Michael nodded. ‘Nothing about apostolic poverty yet, thank God.’ He indicated the new message. ‘Although that might change tomorrow. The culprit must hate us very deeply, to murder Hemmysby, steal the Stanton Hutch, and set the Dominicans at our throat.’
‘Or perhaps we are just the instrument with which he aims to damage the whole University,’ suggested Langelee soberly. ‘The King will be livid that the example of Linton Hall went unheeded, and might arrange for the whole studium generale to be put under interdict.’
Death of a Scholar: The Twentieth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 33