Death of a Scholar (16 page)

Richard frowned uneasily. ‘I am not sure I follow. Are you suggesting that Potmoor had something to do with Knyt’s death?’

‘Yes,’ replied Edith with total conviction. ‘And it is not the first time he has killed either.’

‘No,’ agreed Richard wryly. ‘The taverns are full of tales about his many victims – some slaughtered by his own hand, and others by that army of henchmen he has recruited. Of course, not everyone believes he is such an outright villain. Provost Illesy says—’

‘Everyone thinks that Oswald died of marsh fever,’ interrupted Edith. ‘But I have never been happy with that explanation, as you know. I have thought of little else these last few weeks, and Knyt’s sudden and unexpected death has given me the answers I have been looking for. He was poisoned. And so was Oswald.’

Bartholomew blinked. This was a wild conclusion, even for a woman desperate to understand why a much-loved spouse had been snatched away with so little warning. ‘I hardly think—’

‘By Potmoor,’ finished Edith. ‘He is a wicked slayer of innocent men, and I mean to bring him to justice. And I want your help.’

Bartholomew scrubbed hard at his face with his hands. His sister was not easily dissuaded from a course of action once she had decided on it, and preventing her from tackling one of the most dangerous criminals the town had ever known was going to be a challenge. He glanced at Richard, hoping that a combined assault by both would convince her that her deductions were questionable, and that accusing Potmoor was certainly not something Oswald would have wanted.

But Richard’s expression was troubled, and Bartholomew’s unease intensified. Was Edith’s allegation a possibility that Richard had already considered? Or was his nephew merely afraid that such an accusation might damage his chances of being accepted at Winwick Hall – a place that benefited from Potmoor’s largesse?

‘Oswald was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew, quietly but firmly in the hope that calm reason might nip the situation in the bud before it blossomed into something dangerous. ‘Whatever gave you such an outlandish idea?’

‘There is evidence,’ replied Edith, and Bartholomew’s heart sank. She had spent too much time brooding, and he realised he should have done more to prevent it. ‘Oswald challenged Potmoor when he first began to ply his nasty trade in Cambridge, and Potmoor did not like it. Oswald was also a powerful voice in the Guild of Saints, and took his responsibility to the poor seriously. So did Felbrigge, Elvesmere and Knyt, and now all four are dead. Tell me that is not suspicious.’

‘It is not suspicious,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘Oswald and Knyt died of natural causes, and you cannot compare their deaths to what happened to Felbrigge and Elvesmere. If you wander down that path, you will drive yourself mad.’

‘I am right,’ insisted Edith. ‘I guessed the truth ages ago. Now Knyt is dead, I am sure of it.’

‘She may have a point,’ said Richard. Bartholomew shot him an exasperated glance: encouraging her was hardly helpful. ‘But we shall need solid evidence to convict Potmoor in a court of law.’

‘I have it,’ said Edith with savage triumph, pulling a piece of parchment from her sleeve. ‘I found it today when I was sorting through Oswald’s documents.’

Richard frowned. ‘The ones in the box? I told you to leave those alone.’

Edith shot him a look that expressed exactly what she thought of his gall in daring to give her orders, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘It is a letter inviting Oswald to a meeting, to discuss “certain delicate business”. Well, Potmoor’s dealings with him were certainly “delicate”. Oswald refused to listen to anything that vile rogue had to say.’

With Richard peering over his shoulder, Bartholomew read the message quickly. It was in French, nicely penned and perfectly grammatical – and nothing like the kind of communication the boorish Potmoor was likely to send.

‘It is unsigned,’ noted Richard. ‘How do you know it is from him?’

‘Because it is on expensive parchment,’ Edith replied, ‘which he is wealthy enough to afford.’

‘So are many others,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Especially Oswald’s merchant friends.’

‘Yes, but
they
would have sent a servant with a verbal invitation,’ she argued. ‘Potmoor is the only man obliged to converse by letter. He cannot ask his horrible henchmen to recite messages on doorsteps, because no one would be foolish enough to answer their knocks.’

Bartholomew regarded her sceptically. He could name dozens of people who penned communiqués to friends, kinsmen and acquaintances. Moreover, when Potmoor had been ill, he had used Hugo to fetch medical help, thus proving that he
did
issue verbal invitations.

‘I doubt Potmoor speaks French,’ he said. ‘And even if he does, or he hired a clerk, he is not so stupid as to leave written evidence of a murder he planned to commit.’

‘Perhaps he did not intend to kill Oswald when he sent it. Maybe he just wanted to persuade him to turn a blind eye to the illicit activities on the wharves. And when Oswald refused … Look at the date on this letter: Lammas Day.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘What is the significance of that?’

‘You were not here, so I suppose there is no reason for you to remember,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Oswald died on Lammas Day.’

‘Are you sure he actually went to this meeting?’ asked Richard, while Bartholomew flailed around for a way to tell her that it was probably just coincidence.

‘Of course.’ She shot him a disdainful glance, one that then turned to her brother. ‘I remember everything about that day, as I have told you on countless occasions before. It was a lovely warm evening, and there was to be a Guild function later. Oswald and I were in the hall with Agatha, who happened to be visiting, when this letter arrived.’

‘How do you know it was that letter?’ pounced Bartholomew.

‘Purple ink,’ replied Edith, showing it to him. ‘It is unusual and distinctive. And there is the date, of course. Anyway, Oswald read it, then told us that he needed to go out before the Guild gathering, to take care of a small piece of business.’

‘But he did not specify that the “business” was with Potmoor,’ said Bartholomew. They were covering old ground – he had lost count of the number of times they had combed through every last detail of his brother-in-law’s final few hours.

‘No, but this missive proves it was,’ said Edith stubbornly.

Bartholomew did not want to be unkind, but he had to make her see sense before there was a serious problem. ‘Not all Oswald’s affairs were wholesome, Edith,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Perhaps that invitation is from another dubious contact who—’

‘Matt!’ cried Edith, while Richard’s face darkened with anger. ‘He might have sailed a little close to the wind on occasion, but he was always honest.’

Not for the first time, Bartholomew marvelled at the extent to which Stanmore had managed to pull the wool over his family’s eyes regarding his creative business practices. He tried again to reason with her. ‘Yet you told me only yesterday that you had uncovered evidence of unscrupulous dealings with King’s Hall.’

‘There was another with Mistress Tulyet, too,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘I discovered it this morning. But these were isolated incidents, and I am sure there was a good reason for them.’

‘Of course there was,’ snapped Richard, clenching his fists at his side. ‘And if you had left his personal affairs alone, as I suggested, we would not be having this shameful discussion.’

‘Shall I tell you again what happened when he returned home that night?’ asked Edith, and before either could tell her there was no need, she began. ‘He was sombre, which was odd, as he usually enjoyed Guild meetings.’ She favoured Bartholomew with a frosty glare. ‘And it was
not
because he had had too much to drink.’

At one point, Bartholomew, familiar with maudlin drunks from College feasts – back when Michaelhouse had been able to afford them – had asked how much Oswald had imbibed. Edith had still not forgiven the impertinence of the question.

‘He said he felt unwell and wanted to retire,’ she continued. ‘I stayed chatting to Agatha for a while, then went to see if he needed a tonic. He was clearly ill, so I asked her to fetch a physician. You were in Peterborough, so she called Doctor Rougham.’

Bartholomew did not look at her, afraid he would see accusation in her eyes again for being away. ‘Why do you find it so difficult to believe that he had marsh fever? He had bouts of it in the past, and August is a bad month for such ailments. Moreover, Rougham said—’

‘Rougham!’ spat Edith. ‘You have never trusted his diagnoses before. Why start now?’

‘Because he suffers from marsh fever himself. He knows the symptoms.’

‘But, as I keep telling you, Oswald’s last illness was not like his other attacks. I have spoken to his friends at the Guild, and they all say the same – he was not himself that evening. And I now know why: because Potmoor enticed him to a meeting first, and gave him poison.’

Bartholomew turned to Richard for support but his nephew was nodding slowly, an expression on his chubby features that was dark and rather dangerous.

‘I have often wondered why he succumbed so quickly to this so-called fever,’ Richard said. ‘Perhaps Potmoor
is
responsible. Or a so-called friend, jealous of Father’s success and integrity.’

‘So now you know the truth,’ said Edith, hands on hips as she regarded them both challengingly. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘I doubt Potmoor is a poisoner. It is too subtle a method of execution for a man like him.’

‘Not with a victim like Oswald,’ argued Edith. ‘An official investigation would have exposed him as the one with the obvious motive for murder. But he will not get away with it, not as long as I have breath in my body.’

Bartholomew could tell that she had resolved to do what she thought was right, and the anger in Richard’s eyes suggested that he might help her. If he wanted to keep them safe, he had no choice but to explore the matter himself, or at least go through the motions.

‘I will look into it,’ he promised. ‘But on two conditions. First, that you say nothing to anyone else about your suspicions, and second, that neither of you will try to investigate.’

‘But we will be more efficient together,’ objected Edith, dismayed.

‘No, he is right,’ said Richard. ‘We may damage his chances of success if we butt in with questions of our own. We should let him work alone.’

Bartholomew regarded him sharply, not sure what to make of the remark. Was it a blind, and Richard actually intended to initiate an inquest of his own? Was he genuinely acknowledging that two enquiries might be counterproductive? Or was he a coward, unwilling to tackle killers himself?

Edith considered the proposal for a long time before finally inclining her head. ‘Very well. But I
am
right about this. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Bartholomew entered the Jewry in an unsettled frame of mind, wondering how he was going to prove to his family’s satisfaction that Oswald had died of natural causes. It would be yet another demand on his time, and he was not sure how he would manage. He grew more flustered still when he remembered that his next patient lived in the house that Matilde had once owned.

It was not easy to enter a place that held so many poignant memories. Matilde’s parlour had been bright, clean and welcoming, full of the scent of herbs and honey. He associated it with laughter, love and warmth. The current occupant, however, had transformed it so completely that he would not have known it, which was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. It was crammed with dark, heavy furniture and horsehair pillows, and there was a powerful stench of burning fat.

The patient was Marjory Starre, a woman of indeterminate age, sometimes said to be a witch. She hated scholars with a passion that was barely rational, although she graciously allowed Bartholomew to tend her for a recurring tetter, a rash that was interesting enough to compensate for her insistence on outlining all the evils of his University each time they met. That day, however, she was more concerned with the storm that had battered the town the previous night.

‘It blew for John Knyt. Everyone knows that a strong wind means a great man is dead.’

Bartholomew had known no such thing, but most of his attention was on her hands, which exhibited an unusual and intriguing degree of inflammation.

‘Potmoor murdered him, of course,’ she went on. ‘Because back in the spring, Knyt voted against his election to the Guild of Saints. Potmoor was not the kind of man Knyt wanted in that venerable body, see.’

‘Knyt was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of—’

‘Potmoor murdered Felbrigge and Elvesmere for the same reason.’ Marjory cut across him, as was her wont with anyone who tried to argue. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he disposed of your brother-in-law, too. Of course, while Stanmore always claimed to dislike Potmoor, I happen to know they got on very well together.’

Bartholomew regarded her sharply, wondering if she somehow knew about the discussion he had just had with Edith and Richard. Or perhaps she had put the notion of murder into Edith’s head in the first place. Regardless, there was a sly cant in her eyes that he did not like at all.

‘I hope you are not suggesting that Oswald was a criminal,’ he said coolly.

‘He was too clever to treat with Potmoor publicly, although arrangements were certainly in place behind the scenes,’ she replied artfully. ‘He sold cloth, which he imported via the river that flows through Chesterton – Potmoor’s domain. If you dig deep enough, you will find connections. No wind blew for him, of course, which means he was
not
a great man.’

‘He was to his family,’ said Bartholomew with quiet dignity. ‘And that is what counts.’

‘Is it indeed?’ asked Marjory archly. She continued her rant. ‘The wind did not blow for Felbrigge and Elvesmere either. But it blew for Knyt, and it will blow again soon.’

‘Who for?’ asked Bartholomew, although his mind was back on her tetter, with which he felt a good deal more comfortable.