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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Because Illesy has sent him to Ely for parchment, and he is not expected back until tomorrow. Bon told me when I asked why there was no student-guide to accompany him to the debate earlier. Do not worry, Matt. Uyten has no idea we suspect him, so he has no reason to flee.’

  ‘I imagine we will see him at midnight,’ said Bartholomew dourly. ‘At the Round Church, waiting for his fifty marks.’

  ‘Perhaps. But go home now, and try to sleep. One of us should be alert if we are to thwart blackmailers and killers later.’

  Bartholomew started to walk to Michaelhouse, but happened to glance into the Cardinal’s Cap as he passed, and saw Rougham sitting inside with Meryfeld and two women. He entered the tavern, and joined their table uninvited.

  ‘Keep taking the tonic, mistress,’ said Rougham, blushing furiously because his companion was Yolande de Blaston, the town’s most popular prostitute. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘And the same goes for you,’ said Meryfeld, shoving Yolande’s friend off his lap with such vigour that she stumbled. ‘And if you feel faint again, sniff the sal ammoniac I prescribed.’

  She frowned her confusion. ‘But you gave us that for patrons who fall asleep in our beds after they have finished with us. We do not need it for ourselves.’

  ‘Come, sister,’ said Yolande, quicker on the uptake. ‘Let us leave these medical men to discuss dissection and anatomy. We have other fish to fry.’

  ‘Do not fry them too long,’ said Meryfeld, trying to wink meaningfully without Bartholomew seeing. ‘You may need to consult us again.’

  ‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew wearily. He had known for years that Rougham enjoyed a lively relationship with Yolande, and it came as no surprise that Meryfeld did likewise. ‘Your personal lives are none of my concern. I just wanted some company.’

  ‘Those were patients,’ said Rougham sternly. ‘You do not have a monopoly on paupers, you know. However, I am disturbed that they think we discuss dissection and anatomy when we are together. I have never talked about those in my life, except to condemn them.’

  ‘Nor have I,’ agreed Meryfeld in distaste. ‘They strike me as most unhygienic activities, as I cannot imagine that the inside of corpses are very clean.’

  Bartholomew glanced at Meryfeld’s grimy paws, and thought a dissector could slice up a hundred corpses without his fingers being half as filthy.

  ‘Much can be learned from the art,’ he said, then wished he had held his tongue. He remained troubled by his examination of Hemmysby, and did not want to defend such procedures when he was not entirely sure they were ethical.

  ‘It would not result in anything I should want to know,’ declared Rougham. He leaned a little closer, and his voice turned gossipy. ‘Did Father William really pen those poisonous words about the Dominican Prior and Satan?’

  ‘William did not make them public,’ hedged Bartholomew. ‘And it is a foolish distraction when we should be concentrating on the murders of our friends and colleagues – Hemmysby, Knyt, Elvesmere, Ratclyf, Felbrigge, Oswald Stanmore—’

  ‘Stanmore was not murdered,’ declared Meryfeld, startled.

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Rougham. ‘Although you are not in a position to say so, Meryfeld. I was the one who tended him on his deathbed.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Meryfeld. ‘Edith sent for you. However, she was not to know that he was actually my patient. I had been treating him while Bartholomew was in Peterborough.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘Treating him for what? And why did you not tell me?’

  ‘Because I did not want to distress you.’ Meryfeld glanced at Rougham. ‘Or embarrass you by revealing that you had made a mistake. You see, Stanmore did not die of marsh fever.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ countered Rougham crossly. ‘I suffer from it myself, and I know the signs.’

  ‘Signs that are also consistent with a failing heart,’ said Meryfeld. ‘Which is what killed him. He came to me three weeks before he died, and every day after that. He was worse each time.’

  He then gave a detailed account of Stanmore’s case. The symptoms were unequivocal, and when he had finished, both Bartholomew and Rougham were forced to concede that his diagnosis was correct.

  ‘I have no cure for sicknesses of that magnitude,’ he concluded, uncharacteristically humble. ‘So I did not attempt one. I prescribed a little peppermint and valerian to calm him, but that was all.’

  ‘So why did Edith not tell me all this?’ demanded Rougham irritably. ‘I might have treated him differently had I been in full possession of the facts.’

  ‘She did not know,’ explained Meryfeld. ‘He did not want to spoil the little time they had left together, so I was sworn to secrecy. He would not even let me visit their home. He always came to my house instead. Indeed, I summoned him there the evening he died.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, ‘when there was nothing you could do to help him?’

  ‘Because Lawrence happened to mention that some chest pains can be eased by a hot compress. I knew Stanmore would struggle to sit through a long Guild meeting comfortably, so I made him one, and sent a note inviting him to visit.’

  ‘In French?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling the message that Edith had found.

  ‘Of course. I do not debase myself with the vernacular when dealing with wealthy clients. I cannot have them thinking me coarse. I used my best parchment and expensive purple ink. He said he felt a little better after I applied the compress, although the effects wore off all too quickly.’

  ‘He went straight to the guildhall when you had finished?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Meryfeld nodded. ‘We walked there together. No one killed him, Bartholomew. He left Milne Street to come directly to me, and we were in each other’s company until I left him by the door of his house when the meeting was over. I would have stayed the night, as I could see the end was near and I wanted to be on hand to help, but he would not let me.’

  ‘Did he eat or drink anything in all that time?’

  ‘Nothing. He had no appetite.’

  Relief surged through Bartholomew, and he gripped Meryfeld’s hand. ‘Thank you! Edith will be hurt that he did not confide in her, but it is better than thinking someone poisoned him.’

  ‘He might have lived longer had he not worked so hard when he should have been resting,’ said Meryfeld. ‘There were things he did not want her to discover, you see.’

  ‘What things?’ asked Rougham curiously.

  ‘He did not say, but I suspect they pertained to the way he ran his business. One night when he came to see me, there was a reek of burnt parchment on him, and I had the strong sense that he had been destroying records.’

  Bartholomew left the Cardinal’s Cap and hurried to Milne Street. It was late, but he knew Edith would not mind. He told her everything he had learned, and then sat with her while she wept for the man she had loved, and the knowledge that he had tried so hard to spare her pain.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse to find the other Fellows waiting for him, their expressions grim. It was almost eleven o’clock, and late for them to be awake. The elation he had felt on discovering the truth about Oswald evaporated when he recalled what they had to do that night.

  ‘We must catch them this time,’ said Langelee. ‘If they escape, it will not matter that we have retrieved the Stanton Hutch – they will make good on their threat and we shall be destroyed.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go to Ely and arrest Uyten,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then we will be spared this reckless escapade.’

  ‘I do not believe Uyten is the culprit,’ said Michael, after Bartholomew had explained his theory to the others. ‘He is not sufficiently clever.’

  ‘Then perhaps he is following orders,’ suggested Langelee.

  ‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I doubt he will be entrusted with tonight’s delicate business. He is too brutal and clumsy. This is a task the rogues will tackle themselves.’

>   Everyone except Bartholomew agreed, and turned their attention to Langelee’s plan.

  ‘We had better take some money with us,’ said William worriedly. ‘They will not approach if they think we have come empty-handed.’

  ‘I have prepared this.’ Langelee produced a parcel that clinked metallically. ‘It is roughly the weight of fifty marks in shillings, but comprises a lot of nails. It should be enough to draw them in. And then we shall pounce.’

  ‘Heavens!’ gulped Suttone. ‘Are you sure there is no other way? They will almost certainly be armed, and one of us may be hurt.’

  ‘You only have yourselves to blame,’ said Thelnetham, who had been listening to the discussion with aloof disdain. ‘I told you that William’s disagreeable opinions would cause trouble, but you would not listen. You should have dismissed him years ago.’

  ‘And you should never have been appointed,’ flared William. ‘You are a spiteful old—’

  ‘Thank God I am leaving at the end of the week,’ interrupted Thelnetham, crossing himself piously. ‘I cannot tell you what a relief it is to be going to a respectable foundation.’

  William drew breath to retort, but the Gilbertine put his head in the air and minced away. Under the sober habit of his Order he was wearing bright red shoes.

  ‘We are better off without him,’ said Langelee, watching him go. ‘He might rise above the rest of us in a debate, but he is of an unpleasantly quarrelsome disposition.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed William. ‘And his manner of dress sets a bad example to our students.’

  ‘We should go,’ said Michael, after a brief moment during which everyone contemplated the fact that the Franciscan’s unkempt mien was hardly something to which young men should aspire either. ‘Or the culprits might arrive first and see us slipping into our hiding places.’

  ‘Is that the plan?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘But it is what they will expect us to do!’

  ‘Credit me with some sense,’ said Langelee irritably. ‘I have chosen positions where they will not think to look. No, Clippesby, you cannot bring the chicken. Put it down.’

  ‘Perhaps he should stay here,’ suggested Bartholomew, suspecting the traumatic revelations earlier had taken their toll and it would be safer for everyone if the Dominican was left behind. ‘We should not strip the College of all its Fellows when the town is so uneasy.’

  ‘And Thelnetham no longer counts,’ growled William. ‘He does not care what happens to us now. The selfish, ungrateful pig! After all our kindness towards him, too.’

  ‘I had better stay behind as well,’ said Suttone. ‘You are right: we cannot trust Thelnetham to act in our best interests, while John has been odd since Hemmysby died. I am worried for him.’

  ‘Worried for himself more like,’ muttered William, as the Carmelite led Clippesby away before anyone could object. ‘You had better recruit a few beadles to help instead, Brother.’

  ‘No,’ said Langelee. ‘We cannot involve outsiders. We do this alone or not at all. But do not worry. Cynric will help, and I will not be defeated a second time. We will prevail.’

  Bartholomew’s heart pounded with tension as they walked to the north of the town, where the Round Church was a barrel-shaped mass in the darkness. The streets were unusually busy with bands of townsfolk, students and matriculands, all armed and obviously looking for trouble. Fortunately, Langelee and Cynric were formidable in their half-armour and broadswords, so no one bothered the Michaelhouse contingent.

  When they arrived, Bartholomew was allocated a spot at the back of the graveyard, a dismal location near the reeking, fetid canal known as the King’s Ditch. William was not far away, while Langelee and Michael were on Bridge Street, and Cynric had been given the Barnwell Causeway. Langelee’s parcel had already been deposited behind the stipulated tomb.

  The night was dark and cold, and a strengthening wind made it difficult to listen for stealthy footsteps. Time passed slowly, and Bartholomew grew increasingly chilled, but dared not move lest the culprits were watching. He heard the bells in the nearby Franciscan Priory chime for nocturns, which meant it was after two o’clock – the blackmailers were obviously in no hurry for their money – but still nothing happened. The friars’ chanting wafted towards them, melodious and serene.

  Then he saw a shadow near the tomb. It could not have come from either of the roads, so he could only suppose there was another way into the cemetery of which Langelee had been unaware when he had deployed his troops. At the same time, he heard crooning above the buffeting wind: William was joining his brethren’s night office, probably on his knees with his eyes closed, which meant he was unaware that their quarry had arrived.

  Bartholomew picked up a pebble and lobbed it in the friar’s direction, but the singing continued. He peered into the darkness, hoping to see Langelee, Michael or Cynric stealing forward, but they were watching the streets, not anticipating that the culprits might approach from another direction. The wind tore the clouds from the moon, and he saw the shadow clearly – a figure wearing a hooded cloak, his movements brisk and confident as he weighed the parcel in his hand.

  Bartholomew exploded from his hiding place with a furious yell. He heard Langelee’s answering shout, and lumbering footsteps told him that William was also on his feet and running. Then the clouds obscured the moon, and the figure vanished in the sudden blackness. By the time Bartholomew reached the tomb, the shape had gone.

  However, while the moon’s silvery light had still glowed he had spotted a path, and knew the blackmailer had taken it. It was narrow and nearly impossible to follow in the dark; brambles tore at his clothes as he blundered along it. He stopped and listened intently, but all he could hear was Langelee cursing somewhere behind him.

  Then there was a gleam of light – Cynric had had the wit to bring a lamp. The book-bearer shoved past Bartholomew and began to race along a thin, all-but-invisible track that snaked through the tangle of brush towards Bridge Street. Bartholomew followed, but was knocked flying when Langelee barrelled into the back of him.

  ‘Move!’ bellowed the Master, pounding past.

  As Bartholomew scrambled upright the clouds parted for an instant and illuminated a fork in the track. Cynric and Langelee had chosen the broader more obvious route to the left, so he took the other, shouting for William and Michael to do the same. It made a sharp right turn, then ended at the King’s Ditch so abruptly that he was obliged to flail with his arms to avoid pitching in.

  Not far away was a boat, one person rowing and another sitting in the stern. Bartholomew put one foot in the water, the chase so hot in him that he was willing to leap in and swim after it, but the ditch was icy cold and reeked of sewage. It brought him to his senses. The chances of catching a moving boat were slim, but he might well catch something else, and he could not afford to be ill at the beginning of term.

  ‘No,’ he shouted, when William made as if to stage a running dive. ‘It is too late.’

  The figure in the stern leaned back nonchalantly as the little craft gained speed, and raised a hand in a taunting gesture of farewell. William released a string of oaths no friar should have known, and Bartholomew thought he heard mocking laughter float across the water.

  ‘Damn!’ hissed Langelee, coming to stand next to them. ‘I searched this place thoroughly and saw no sign of these paths. The bastards must have concealed them. Did you see anything that will allow you to identify them?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bartholomew despondently. ‘It was too dark.’

  Later, the Fellows sat in the conclave, analysing what had gone wrong. Langelee was pale and sullen, hating being bested a second time, while Cynric was furious with himself for not guessing that the culprits might travel by water. William was indignant that the crime should have taken place during a holy office, and Michael was worried about what would happen when the blackmailers arrived home to discover that they had been given a parcel of nails.

  ‘The figure I saw was too small to be Uyten,’
said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he was the one rowing the boat.’

  ‘Not if he is in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘Besides, I was sceptical when you first outlined your theory, and nothing has changed my mind. But we shall certainly speak to him in the morning.’

  ‘You mean in an hour or two,’ put in William. ‘The night is almost over now.’

  ‘Do not waste your time on Uyten,’ ordered Langelee. ‘We have too much else to do. The villains will make good on their threat when they discover that we have deceived them, and we must be ready for the resulting trouble. We shall start preparing our defences at first light.’

  ‘I hardly think the tract will result in an assault on our College, Master,’ said Suttone. ‘Most people do not care two hoots about heresy. And the Pope and the King are unlikely to invade.’

  Langelee shot him a withering look. ‘Excommunication and dissolution are what we face in the long term, but before we reach that stage, we must weather the reactions of those William insulted in his foreword. The Dominicans will seek reparation through the courts, but the Gilbertine novices are an unruly horde, and will come at us with weapons.’

  ‘So will John Winwick’s scholars,’ added Michael.

  ‘Then we had better start preparing now,’ gulped William, and the fact that he did not try to argue told an alarmed Bartholomew that Langelee’s concerns for the College’s safety were justified. ‘I shall rouse the students at once.’

  The wind had picked up further since they had been at the Round Church, and was gusting hard. Bartholomew recalled Marjory Starre’s prediction that the next blow would presage another death, perhaps his own. He slipped his hand in his bag and felt the comforting smoothness of the charm she had given him, but then chided himself for a superstitious fool.

  He followed his colleagues out of the hall, and it was not long before Michaelhouse was in the grip of frenzied activity. Buckets were filled with water, ready to combat fires; any objects that could be used as weapons were stacked in readily accessible piles; and baskets of stones were collected to lob from the tops of walls and the gatehouse.